


Once Upon A Time (6024 years)

by GenericUsername01



Series: Truth Untold [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 2000 years of kissing, 6000 years of kissing, Agender Aziraphale, Assumptions, Aziraphale & Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Blind crowley, Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Forbidden Love, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Minor Character Death, Other, PLAGUE DOCTOR CROWLEY, Period Typical Bigotry, Sharing a Bed, Some changes to canon, The Flood - Freeform, Thirsty Aziraphale (Good Omens), Worldbuilding, also the pacing is intentional, at least that's what I'm going for, aziraphale has an immortal bookshop cat, based on so many tumblr posts, crowley does not rise though, discussion of demonic redemption, freckles are angel kisses, i need to demonstrate the slow burn accurately, in settings where it applies and in different forms, ish he can still see souls and holiness vs evilness, its complicated, nothing major just minor tweaks to make it better and gayer, okay that's a lie, painfully sweet angst, the 6000 years, the cat is crowley's real nemesis on earth, they both have RTS, you need to feel every last one of the 6000 years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2020-06-30 04:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 65,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19845268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenericUsername01/pseuds/GenericUsername01
Summary: Their relationship is simultaneously being held together and pulled apart by the weight of what they don't say.In which a demon loves an angel, an angel loves a demon, and they are both perfectly aware of that, thanks.It's a shame they can never be together.Note: You don't need to read the prequel to understand this fic.





	1. 14.3 Centuries

**Author's Note:**

> I will TRY to avoid recapping scenes from the show cause I know it's dull as fuck to do that in a fic but I swear the ones I do include are for the purpose of showing characters' mindsets and trains of thought during them, hence showing Az/Crowley's first meeting from both perspectives so you can see what wildly different and horrible expectations they had of each other. Just bear with me in those scenes, okay, I have a Point
> 
> EDIT : I used... made-up names for Focalor, Phenex, and Marchosias's angelic adversaries... and then I found real angels listed for that when I wasn't even looking. Their names have been changed. I'm a fool.
> 
> WARNINGS: brief mentions of torture/violence that I do not describe at all, I literally just mention the fact that it happens. Main thing to watch out for honestly is the retelling of Bible stories because I picked all the questionable ones to focus on, and they occasionally feature people doing fucked up things. No graphic violence though. SPECIAL WARNING for whatever dubiously consensual/unethical shit went down with Hagar and Sarai and Abram. I tried to keep it as close to the account as possible and not assume anything, but honestly, the Bible does not paint a pretty picture.

**Eden, 4004 BC**

Aziraphale had just been born yesterday and he was already having a time of it.

He had come into the universe in the midst of a turbulent political situation. He had very suddenly Existed, in a stark white room with an odd, pale corporation draped in layers of white cloth. There had been a woman(-ish being) staring at him, who had looked so very different and so similar at the same time, and she'd had deep, intense eyes and gold flakes all over her skin.

"Your name is Aziraphale," she had said. "I created you as a complement to the Archangel Raphael. You'll meet him later in the day."

And then there had been a bit of waiting around for a few hours, before all of Heaven's angels were called to stand witness over Eden's walls and observe the creation of man. The archangels had been there, all of them right in the center, including _Aziraphale's_ archangel, but he couldn't for the life of him name a single one of the being's features.

Which was dreadful, just dreadful of him, but he supposed he couldn't really be faulted for forgetting what must have been the most unremarkable face in all the excitement of the day. He had seen nearly 10 million others for the first time as well, then. Bound to get all jumbled up by that point.

Everything was a bit of a blur after that. Man was created, Raphael had to excuse himself briefly to attend to something, woman was created, and then they all dispersed. Aziraphale had been quite at a loss as to what to do. He had searched for that nice archangel from before-- Uriel, her name was-- but had only been able to find her assistant after asking at least ten other angels.

"Excuse me, ma'am, do you happen to know where I can find Archangel Raphael? I'm to be his assistant," he said, a little bit of pride in his voice.

 _"You're_ the assistant to Raphael?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes," he said, straightening.

"Come with me," she said, and immediately started flying in the opposite direction. Aziraphale hurried to catch up.

"E-excuse me, miss, I don't believe I managed to catch your name?"

"Selaphiel," she said, eyes dead ahead.

"Selaphiel. Lovely to meet you. My name is Aziraphale."

They flew in silence the rest of the way.

* * *

He was taken to a room up in Heaven where three very tense archangels and their respective assistants stood. Selaphiel left him immediately and went to go stand at Uriel's right side.

"This is Aziraphale," Selaphiel said. "He is the one who is for Raphael."

He felt very much on display.

"I see," the one 'male' archangel said. "Well. This sure is awkward."

"I-I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale asked.

"Certain circumstances have come up, and I'm afraid the position as nurse aide to the Healer is... no longer extant. You see, the thing is, Raphael, he... Well, he--"

"Died," the other archangel Aziraphale didn't recognize said. "He died. He's dead now."

He sucked in a breath. "Wha... How did this happen?"

The speaking archangel bit her lip. "Um. It was simple, really. The demons killed him."

"Which ones?" he snapped. "I demand to know. I have a right to avenge my archangel. I was created to be a helpmeet to him, as Eve was for Adam, and I will not stand for this."

"Oh, that's-- That's not necessary," the other archangel said.

"I believe it most certainly is. We most certainly cannot allow the demons to just-- just kill an archangel, unpunished! What sort of precedent would that set? What if they kept doing it?"

"Well, when Michael said the demons killed Raphael, what she really meant was..." He trailed off, looking towards the archangel in question, who appeared just as lost and slightly panicked.

"Raphael would go down into Hell," Uriel said. "And heal the demons of their wounds. It was nasty, terrible work. Angels are not meant to have any contact with demons, and the repeated exposure, the prolonged contact, it-- sapped him of his life force."

"He gave his life for others," Aziraphale murmured, understanding.

"A true martyr," the remaining unnamed archangel said. "Not that anyone should follow his example, mind you. Stay away from the demons."

"Yes," Michael said. "The demons were ungrateful, and they took more than he was able to give. Our respective energies are just too incompatible. Performing miracles on a demon, touching them at all-- it's playing with fire."

"He's lucky he didn't explode on contact," Uriel said darkly.

"A true hero. He will be missed," the tall one said. "Well! So sorry about your lack of assignment, Aziraphale. Head office is usually more organized than this, I swear. We've just had a bit of a chaotic day. Hey, you're a cherub, right? Got a flaming sword for demon killing and everything, and you sure seem ready to use it. Why don't you guard the gate to Eden, hm? Keep those humans safe. Protect them from the demon menace."

"Right," Aziraphale said. "Right! I'll go do that right now."

* * *

And that was how, less than a day later, he ended up standing on top of the massive wall of Eden, having completely failed to protect it from threats that came up from below and having just given away his sword in a move that he definitely didn't think out and would probably be punished for.

He was watching the humans trek across the desert, stewing in his own anxiety, when a massive snake demon came up beside him.

He did a double take and tensed nervously. Giant snake. Big, big snake. Probably had sharp fangs and poison. Plus, it was also a demon, and therefore wouldn't hesitate to use them.

And demons only approached angels for one reason.

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon," the demon mumbled, not looking at him.

Aziraphale laughed nervously. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I said, 'Well, that went down like a lead balloon."

"Yes, _yes._ It did, rather."

"Bit of an overreaction if you ask me. First offense and everything," he said. "I can't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway."

Or, perhaps not. Perhaps demons also approached angels to gossip about the current state of Creation and ask philosophical questions. And really, if he wanted to learn, was it not Aziraphale's job to teach? Had his patron archangel not died while helping these demons? He should give the creatures the benefit of the doubt.

Perhaps the demon could be redeemed. Maybe their Fall had been... a misunderstanding. A matter of ignorance. If he fully understood the Truth of God's love and divinity, he would not have sinned and turned away. There was no reason to.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale wasn't quite sure how to answer _that_ question in particular. He would have to consult a superior.

"Well, it must be bad..."

"Crawly."

"--Crawly, otherwise you wouldn't have tempted them into it."

"Oh, they just said 'Get up there and make some trouble.'"

"Well, obviously. You're a demon. It's what you do."

Something Aziraphale was keenly aware of and desperately trying to keep in mind. Appearances can be deceiving. The demon seemed friendly. The demon seemed harmless.

You never see a snake's teeth before the bite.

"Not very subtle of the Almighty, though. Fruit tree in the middle of a garden with a 'don't touch' sign? I mean, why not put it on top of a high mountain? Or on the moon?"

He paused. Disappointment sank low in Aziraphale's gut. Of course.

"Makes you wonder what God's really planning," the demon finished.

He should have seen the temptation coming. Crawly was _a demon._ He did not approach an angel out of a sincere desire to learn. No, he came to argue, to plant doubts, to debate the indisputable.

Any other angel would have expected-- _known_ \-- what was coming right off the bat.

 _Apostate,_ a voice in the back of his head warned.

"Best not to speculate," he said flatly.

But then, against his better judgment, his own will, and every Angel Training seminar that would ever be given, he kept talking to the demon and was pulled halfway into a debate when Crawly suddenly changed tracks and brought up his missing sword that he had been really hoping no one would notice.

He didn't know why he felt the need to defend himself to a _demon,_ of all people.

He was just on edge, he reasoned. He had been having a dreadful, stressful past day and a half, full of so much confusion, and he really just needed this one thing to not be held in question.

"I do hope I didn't do the wrong thing."

"Oh, you're an angel. I don't think you can do the wrong thing."

"Oh-- Oh, thank-- Oh, thank you. It's been bothering me."

"I've been worrying too. What if I did the right thing with the whole 'eat the apple' business? A demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing."

Aziraphale didn't say anything. Adam was fighting a lion, very worrisome, and what, was he supposed to consolingly reassure the demon that he was evil? He wasn't even supposed to be talking to him.

"Be funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If I did the good thing and you did the bad one."

Crawly smiled, and Aziraphale couldn't help but laugh.

Wait.

"No!" he said. "It wouldn't be funny at all."

Rain started to fall. Crawly moved closer to him, as if seeking protection, and Aziraphale offered it without thinking. He extended a wing over him, shielding him from the rain.

And, well, it was a holy rain, wasn't it? The first in history, created by God. Did that make it holy water? Would it kill the demon to be exposed to it?

It seemed such a trivial thing to risk a life on. And really, holding up a wing wasn't exactly a hardship.

* * *

The rain lasted fourteen hours. Crawly stood practically glued to his side through all of it. Aziraphale took care to keep him protected at all times.

They spent as much of it in comfortable silence as they did talking.

As it turned out, Crawly was only bad company in one sense of the phrase.

* * *

"Lizards."

"Great animal. Love 'em. They do push-ups," Crawly said. "Starfish."

"Hmm."

"Come on, say it. Wasn't like God Herself designed 'em."

"They're unnerving little buggers. I think creatures that can go on land should always have blood. It's-- It's a bit creepy that they don't. And that regenerative thing, it's..." He shook his head. "Could you imagine if any other animal worked like that?"

"Terrifying. Bad design."

Aziraphale silently agreed. Couldn't say it, obviously. "The dodo bird."

"Big ol' ball of meat with a tiny head. The humans are going to eat it."

 _"Eat_ it?!"

"Yep. Soon as they find it."

"They're only meant to eat the vegetation of the field!"

"Yeah, for now," Crawly shrugged. "But God changes Her mind a lot. I can see it. Constantly revising the rules and instructions, She is. As humans get farther from perfection, their needs will evolve, and eventually She'll tell them they can eat certain types of animals."

"Animals? But--" Aziraphale made a face. "How would that even work? Won't it be disgusting? With the-- the feathers, and the fur, and all their bones and organs? They have feet! I would never want to eat a foot."

"They aren't going to eat the _whole_ animal, Aziraphale, just the muscle-y parts. They'll pull the flesh from their bones and cook it. It'll be very clean."

"I don't know about that," he said. "No. You're wrong. You have to be. How could you possibly know this? You're just making things up."

"I am not!"

"You are too! You are spreading demonic lies--"

Crawly snorted, grinning, and Aziraphale bit down firmly on the instinct to smile back.

"--and attempting to trick me, as some sort of perverse prank of yours--"

"Oh my God."

"Shhh!"

And yes, maybe a bit of laughter bled through in his voice, but Crawly really didn't have to look so damn smug about it.

* * *

"What's Hell like?" Aziraphale asked curiously.

"It's Hell."

He dropped the subject.

* * *

"If I could change one thing about creation--"

"I don't think I like this conversation."

"--I would put intelligent, vaguely humanoid aliens on Mars. That way, in a few thousand years, when one of their societies finally gets around to space travel, they could all meet up and become friends. And they'd start visiting each other, and trading, and they'd expand and branch out across their solar system. There'd be so much space travel going on, practically everyone would get to see the stars personally."

Aziraphale smiled fondly. "What if the humans and the Martians didn't get along, though?"

Crawly scowled. "What the fuck. Why would you even say something like that?"

Aziraphale just grinned at him, but Crawly gave no reaction. "Only teasing, my dear. I'm sure they'd get on splendidly."

"I'd make sure."

 _"We'd_ make sure."

Crawly raised an eyebrow, and Aziraphale felt his face heat.

"Heaven, I mean. Heaven would ensure there was peace."

* * *

The rain died down a little after dawn, but Aziraphale kept his wing up and Crawly stayed huddled close for another full hour, just to make sure.

When it was finally inexcusably pointless, Aziraphale put his wing down, and Crawly moved away by a good foot.

It wasn't disappointing.

It was only disappointing for the removal of closeness and body heat (not that Crawly actually seemed to emit any body heat), which was a perfectly natural reaction, even in an angel.

"So," Aziraphale said, not quite wanting to leave yet. "What are you going to--"

Crawly blanched and flung himself off the wall. Aziraphale leaned over the edge in a panic. He saw a snake plummeting down the massive drop, but instead of hitting the sand at the end, he just kept falling straight through.

Someone cleared their throat.

The archangel from yesterday was standing in Crawly's place. "Demon giving you trouble?"

"N-no, sir, just dispatched him."

"Uh-huh," he said. "And why didn't you smite him? Where's your sword?"

He laughed. "That's a funny story, actually. You'll like it."

* * *

**Heaven, 3207 BC**

Heaven was having some personnel issues.

The Fall had trickled to a slow stop in a matter of decades, after the Beginning. Everyone seemed to choose a side fairly quickly. It was considered to be a divisive thing: you were either an angel, or a demon. You must worship Heaven, or Hell; God or Satan. There is no middle ground, there are no moderates on the issue, there is no 'center.'

It's laid right out in the Bible, now: man cannot serve two masters. Refusing to help one side is aiding the cause of the other. _Everyone_ must choose.

And so they all had, and there were nearly ten million demons and quite a few thousand more angels, and it stayed that way for a few centuries.

Aziraphale had never even seen an angel Fall. He doesn't like attending the ceremonies, finds it all to be a bit of bad taste, and he's never known one of the Fallen personally, so there was really no reason to.

Now, though, it appeared that everything was going to shit.

Or more specifically, thousands more angels were going to Hell.

They were calling it the Second Fall.

It had started, shamefully, with the principalities.

Principalities were the angels meant to guide and protect humanity. Every single one of them had a permanent Earth assignment. Generally, their God-given tool was a crown or a scepter, as befitting their status. It goes with the name. There were a few whose items were different, but those were only the angels that had been demoted or promoted to the position, like Aziraphale. It was common knowledge that getting reassigned as a principality was Heaven's way of banishing angels they couldn't prove had committed a gross sin. It was a widely mocked position, somehow more undesirable than even the lowest rank of unsorted minion angels. At least the unranked were still in Heaven, and could be trusted to behave themselves properly.

The principalities, not so much.

It was said that staying on Earth too long lead them to pick up human mannerisms, and behave as the lesser species, and to even grow attached to the Earth. It was rumored that some preferred it over Heaven, that they had gone native, that they would turn traitor at the first opportunity, needing only the slightest demonic nudge.

Most took offense to this and considered it slanderous. Aziraphale took his new position as principality very seriously. Just because it was lower in rank didn't mean it was less important. Isn't that precisely why the archangels are second lowest? And really, when you think about it, if this whole thing is a battle for humans' souls, then guiding them directly becomes the most important task an angel could be trusted with.

Unfortunately, it turned out there may have been a shred-- a tiny, minuscule shred-- of truth to those claims Aziraphale had always decried as baseless stereotypes. It wasn't just principalities. But about 90% of the Second Fall was, in fact, composed of principalities.

The humans were beautiful, vibrant, alluring, so vivacious and full of life and personality, and angels started falling in love with them. They would go down to Earth and marry and have children.

Hybrid children.

Every last one of those angels was made Fallen, and then God further cursed their forms and their children with mortality. If they wanted to live among the humans, then they would die among them too.

It was Gabriel who was given the instruction.

**Proceed against the bastards and the reprobates, and against the children of fornication: and destroy the children of fornication and children of the Watchers from amongst men and cause them to go forth: send them one against the other that they may destroy each other in battle: for the length of days they shall not have.**

Who could be worth it, Aziraphale wondered. Who could possibly be worth all that. Who could be worth giving up an eternity in Heaven for a few short years on Earth?

The angels started using the phrase 'Fallen in love' to describe the traitors, and some point, a principality must have used it in front of a human, because then they picked it up too.

They misunderstood it completely, of course.

* * *

**Hell, 3207 BC**

A good-sized crowd of demons stood pressed around all sides of the Pit, looking up at the ceiling.

Absolutely nothing for centuries, and then demons started Falling again, all out of the blue. And oh, the stories they told.

Crawly was standing and chatting with Penemue and Andrealphus (friendly neighborhood math teacher demon. Literally. That's it. He teaches humans all kinds of math and then makes them get really good at it, and those are his only demonic works.), not that they're his friends, because demons don't have friends.

Andrealphus's main basic traits were that he was Loud, he wouldn't shut up, and he was completely obsessed with math. His animal form was a peacock, and while he could dial down its traits, most of the time he appeared with a beak growing out of his face, pitch black eyes lined white skin patterns, small feathers bursting forth from his skin or embedded like ingrown hairs. The only real hair he had was smack at the back of his head, very blue and very curly, perpetually kept in a ponytail.

To be perfectly honest, Crawly isn't sure what math is. Andrealphus had tried to explain one time, and Crawly had just gotten very lost and very confused. He's pretty sure Andrealphus is playing a con game with the entire power structure of Hell, because any time he has to give a report, his duke looks extremely confused after and Andrealphus looks smug, and he never has to do anything other than teach the humans math.

Crawly thinks Penemue might know what math is.

The thing about Penemue is that she's _wise_ more than smart. She chooses her words carefully, and almost never speaks without a good reason. She went to Earth briefly about 70 years ago and had said a single sentence (blindingly obvious in hindsight) about the unfairness of a certain situation, and the humans had gone to war over it.

She hadn't received a commendation, per se, because demons don't give commendations, but she now had one free pass or favor to cash in as needed, so long as she used it quickly before the fanfare wore off.

Penemue-- as a demon-- had her face covered in silver-white eyes that never blinked in unison. Her hair was white, as it had been before, but now it held that overly-frizzy, almost teased texture that many demons' had taken on, and it emitted a fog that lingered thickly around her head. It was never enough to obscure her, just enough to be clearly visible.

Crawly had remembered healing them, from Before. He Fell, and nobody cared. He engineered the Original Sin within an hour of being topside and doomed all of humanity, getting them cursed with sin and mortality, and the entirety of Hell was shocked. Beelzebub had asked if he would like to kill Hastur and replace him as a duke. Crawly thought he had handled that particular situation expertly. He had declined the promotion and leveraged it for a permanent Earth posting, saying he could do a hell of a lot more damage up there, like Azazel. This was met with great approval.

(Azazel had initially been offered a princeship. He had declined in favor of walking the Earth, saying he would rather spread their story and noble cause than get tangled up in hellish politics. He was now a wealthy merchant along the Euphrates River, and in the process of building a boat.)

Hastur never approached him without Ligur to back him up after that.

Penemue and Andrealphus started hanging around.

Demons don't have friends. They had both made it very clear that they stuck close to Crawly to bolster their own reputations and get the other demons to leave them alone.

"How do you know that hanging around me isn't the most dangerous place you can be?" Crawly had asked, doing his best to look intimidating.

Andrealphus had snorted and Penemue had proceeded to tell him verbally that she was rolling all nine of her eyes, which made panic shoot through him.

She couldn't know, could she? How could she possibly know?

Crawly had recovered quickly and grumbled something about the both of them being 'overly trusting idiots.'

Demons don't have friends. What Crawly has with Penemue and Andrealphus is a mutually beneficial arrangement. They put on a good show of hanging around him submissively and taking his lead. The two of them seem more powerful and hopefully untouchable by association, and Crawly's reputation skyrockets, being a demon powerful enough to have two lackeys under his spell.

None of them are, per se, 'physically strong' or able to 'hold their own in a fight.' Their biggest advantage in that department is that Andrealphus is super weirdly tall, but it's immediately cancelled out by the fact that he's thin as a rail and could be knocked over by a strong wind. The three of them are-- collectively-- holding off the remaining hordes of Hell purely through wits and intimidation. They're the demonic equivalent of three high school nerds who huddle together defensively and are unbothered by bullies purely because of that one time one of them blew something up in the science lab and someone else who didn't know what they were talking about claimed it was an intentionally made bomb.

A soft purple glow was emanating from the ceiling.

"One's about to come down," Crawly said.

"How do you know?" Andrealphus asked. He ignored the question.

The light grew brighter, and brighter, and redder as it went. The source was finally revealed, the glowing, amorphous form of an angel falling. No blue of holy chains. Probably in an animal form, then.

This one came down screaming. It cut out suddenly, with the splash and thud of the new demon hitting the bottom.

The Pit was shallow. They were probably concussed.

Hellfire was healing to demons, on normal occasions. But only something holy can heal a Heaven-inflicted injury. The hellfire would do nothing in this case, and now that he was a demon, Crawly's healing abilities were worthless. The new one would just have to suffer.

They'd heal naturally. Eventually.

Another angel was falling. This one was silent and entirely limp. Crawly felt a faint thrum of concern, and firmly told himself that was stupid. It didn't really do anything-- he was still concerned, but now he felt a bit guilty too. Sucked.

"That's what, the tenth? Eleventh?" he asked.

"Thirteenth," Andrealphus said. "At the rate they're falling, we can conclude that this is the result of a sudden, mass expulsion. Someone probably brought the matter Up High, and now they're getting rid of all of them at once."

"Any projections?" Crawly drawled. "How many newbies can we expect from this?"

"That's not something I could tell you," Andrealphus said.

"About half a million," Penemue said. "A little more. Should even things up to exactly 10 mil to 10 mil."

Andrealphus made an approving sound.

"The Princes commissioned the project special. They wanted something big, to even the forces. When the war finally comes, we don't want to be at a disadvantage. Heaven regaining complete control would be a dystopian nightmare," she said. "They asked around the dukes, had them recommend five of us as angelic temptation experts."

"You were involved in this?" Crawly asked.

"Yes," she said. "Gadreel was technically in charge. He... directed our activities, and spread a few lies around. It was largely ineffective. Yeqon, Asbeel, and Kasdaye were also there." She was quiet for a moment. "It was literally a group project from Hell; I don't know what I expected."

"You did all of the work?" Andrealphus asked.

Silence. Crawly assumed that Penemue nodded.

"How'd you do it?" Andrealphus asked.

"I just talked to them about love," she said. "I told them the truth."

Up above, another angel fell.

* * *

Somewhere else, up on Earth, the demon Focalor flew into a panic. He rushed around the village he was inhabiting, searching every house and building and business. When that failed, he went back to his house, fell upon his knees prostrate on the floor, and prayed.

Nothing happened.

Desperate, he drew out a sharpened stone and began carving into his packed-dirt floor. He lit bits of things on fire at the appropriate places. It wasn't a binding circle, and it contained no magical triangle, it was a simple, open-ended summons. An invitation rather than a compulsion.

And then he called in plea upon his adversary.

Hahael appeared in a blast of light that filled the dingy hut, nearly blinding her demon.

"Focalor?" she asked, frowning. "What is--"

He fell to his knees. "Please," he said. "Please, please, I can't take this. I can't do it anymore. I can't, I can't, I'll die, I'll, I'll--"

"Focalor." Hahael stepped out of the circle and placed her hands on his shoulders. "You can't do what? Speak to me."

"I can't be a demon," he said, eyes earnest, welling up with the blood of demon tears. They filled his vision, and he wiped at them angrily, leaving streaks all over his hands and face. Something inside him seemed to crumple at the sight. He fell down to the floor the rest of the way, breathing shakily, staring at his hands.

"I can't live like this," he said. "I can't be this person. I... It doesn't matter. I'll do anything. I'll be a human, I'll be mortal, I'll be dead. Just make me not a demon anymore."

"...That's not something I have the power to do," Hahael said gently. 

"Then who does?"

She shrugged. "There's a procedure. An appeal process," she said. "If you go through with it, it's possible you could be redeemed. Become an angel again."

"An angel?" he breathed. "Tell me how."

A glowing scroll appeared in Hahael's hands. "It comes with a contract," she said. "You have to prove you're serious about repentance. You must make a vow to uphold morality and godliness. You have to denounce Hell, all demons you've had contact with, and any evil deeds or sinful inclinations you've ever had, including before the Fall and whatever got you sentenced to Hell in the first place. After that, there's a 1000 year probation period. You have to live a completely sinless and holy lifestyle, while still being a demon."

"And then?" Focalor asked. "If I do all that, what happens after the thousand years?"

Hahael smiled beatifically, all gentle warmth and understanding. "And then you'll be reborn," she said. "We'll have a ceremony. In honor of your dedication. If you truly do all of this and mean it, you'll be baptized in holy water, and God Herself will appear and give you Her blessing."

Focalor nodded. "I'll do it," he said. "I'll do anything."

He took the quill his angel offered and signed his sigil on the dotted line.

* * *

**Mesopotamia, 3004 BC**

There was Evil on the Ark.

If Crawly thought Aziraphale couldn't sense him here or hadn't been able to sense him at all for the entire ten years he had been hanging around town before this, then he was a damned fool.

Granted, he was technically a damned fool no matter what at this point. But that wasn't a very nice thing to say, and so Aziraphale didn't.

The Ark was a big boat. It had three stories, and was well over 400 feet long. It was also cramped as Hell and full of convenient hiding places. God had told Noah to build different compartments for all the animals. It was a good idea, in that it prevented them from eating or trampling each other, or getting into the food and water stores.

It was a bad idea in that there had to be a thousand different tiny rooms on this boat, and Aziraphale would have to check them _all._

After two hours on the top deck, he moved on to the second deck, and found the sense of evil stronger there.

Three tedious, careful hours later, he found Crawly in a back corner of the bottom deck, huddled in the dark with at least thirty dirt-covered, sniveling Mesopotamian children.

In the capybara enclosure. Which had, admittedly, been leftover space and was far larger than it needed to be due to planning mistakes.

Crawly immediately pried the two children off his lap and marched over to the doorway, fury on his face. He planted his feet and blockaded Aziraphale from entering.

"If you try to remove me," he hissed, low and menacing. "If you ssay one bloody word to thessse children or harm a hair on their headssss, I _ssswear_ , I will bring down thiss whole blesssed ship around usss and then your god will have to miracle sssomething up to ssave everyone."

"Don't," Aziraphale said softly. "Don't... upset the Plan. There's no need for that." He paused for a moment. "Your threats are effective. You win this round."

"...You'll leave the children alone?"

Silence.

"Sssay it," Crawly snapped.

"I will," Aziraphale said. "You have my word."

"And that includess reporting back," he said. "If you told Upstairss about thisss, I'm sure sssomething would be done to get thingss _back on track."_

Silence.

Silence silence _silence._

"Azssiraphale..." he said. He raised his walking stick-- the staff that God had given him, the one he had conducted stardust like symphonies with, the one he had used to gesture in the Garden before all creation, the one he had Fallen with and crawled back into the Pit of Hell to retrieve after the first temptation, fumbling around boiling sulfur only to find it now warped, gnarled, knotted, no longer ramrod straight. It had been changed in the Fall as much as he had. He thought it suited him now much better.

He certainly had more of a use for it.

He raised his walking stick, with the clear threat that bringing it down would shatter every single board that made up the Ark.

"Alright, alright!" Aziraphale said. "Just stop it, would you? I won't say anything."

"You'll leave usss alone."

"I _will_ be making sure you are taking care of the children properly."

Crawly softened. "Good. That'ss fine then."

"Good." Aziraphale's face sounded... warmer, a bit. Sweeter.

* * *

Noah's family lived in specially-made quarters for themselves on the top floor, under the Ark's one and only skylight. It was a sound decision, as the skylight was fairly important, logistics-wise, and this was also the only part of the Ark where anyone could see anything.

Mind, visibility was very intermittent, and depended entirely on flashes of lightning.

But the point was, Noah's family was on the top deck, and there were three different floors worth of zoo between them and the stowaways, so it was very easy to keep them hidden.

Plus, Crawly may have cast a minor obscurity spell over them and told all the kids to be _very, very quiet_ whenever they were coming through to give the animals fresh food and water.

While Aziraphale was there in name to make sure that Ark didn't get struck by lightning or smashed into a mountaintop or attacked by giant squid (and to prevent any accidental extinctions), in actuality, he spent most of his time below decks with Crawly and the children.

For their safety. Wouldn't do to trust them alone with a demon. Besides, he had been assigned as Crawly's official adversary immediately after that conversation with Gabriel at the wall, so it was best to keep an eye on him anyway.

Not that Crawly seemed to be doing anything particularly sinister. Currently he had a small crowd of children gathered around him, and he was telling stories of dubious truthfulness, complete with dramatic hand gestures and colorful, smoky illusions to illustrate. He had captured the children's attention so thoroughly as to rival the capybaras. Before Crawly had started speaking, the animals had been the ones with bunches of little humans crowded around them. But then, capybaras were like that. They tended to have a soothing effect on the rest of Earth's creatures, especially the young.

Aziraphale settled down at the edge of the group, a soft smile on his face, content to watch. A little Mesopotamian girl immediately crawled into his lap, and he gave her a kiss on the head.

"--and then the great beast most foul, the one they call Duke Hastur, he snarled and snapped his crooked, rotting teeth, and he said to me, 'I'm talkin' about you and your little pets.'"

"And what happened then?" a girl asked.

"Well, I knew that he was talking about Penemue and Andrealphus, my two most trusted lieutenants. And worse, he was disrespecting them! And me! Now, I'm a pretty big name Down There, very important and all that. Can't have the rank-and-file getting out of line."

"What'd you doooo?" a boy asked impatiently, tugging on Crawly's tunic.

"I smiled," Crawly said, demonstrating. Every tooth in his mouth came to a sharpened point. His incisors had stretched down into long, thin snake fangs. Aziraphale didn't have a doubt in his mind that the demon's bite was full of poison. "And I told him that he shouldn't speak if he had nothing to say, and that if he was going to disrespect his boss-- me-- like that, then I'm sure something could be arranged where he would never have to see our faces again. Or anyone else's, for that matter."

The kids 'ooooh'ed in appreciation, and Aziraphale frowned.

(In reality, Hastur _had_ made a derogatory remark about Crawly's 'pets', and Crawly _had_ smiled back at him, fangs and all. But then he had said that if Hastur had a fucking problem with it, he could file a report with Dagon, and if he was lucky, then maybe-- just maybe-- it would get forwarded to Lucifuge, who was Hell's manager.)

A capybara wandered over and sniffed at a child's hand. And just like that, Crawly had lost the entire crowd's attention.

* * *

Forty days and forty nights is actually an interminably long time. That said, as soon as Aziraphale determined this and got fully settled into his new life on the Ark, he realized there would only be two weeks of it left.

Then he had a horrible epiphany and pulled Crawly out of the capybara room to speak to him privately.

"Do you have a plan?" he asked. "For the children?"

"What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ that you brought thirty-six underage orphans onto this Ark and now there's only eight adults within hundreds of miles of here, and they don't even know about them. What's your plan for life after? Have you told the children anything? Are they expecting all their parents and neighbors to be there when we reach dry land?"

"No!" Crawly snapped. "No, of course not, I have told them no such thing. Listen, everyone nearby was gathered around to watch the Ark close, and before it did, I said, 'He was right. I can save some of you. Come with me.' And everyone gave me their kids!"

Aziraphale folded his arms. "That's just how it happened to work out?"

"Well, alright, I was mostly herding kids towards the boat. Other parents saw and pushed theirs towards me. I think, I think there had been some... taller humans, originally. Might have got swapped out. I certainly didn't do anything to arrange that. You tell a human family that you can save a limited number of people and they'll save their kids and sacrifice themselves, every time, that's just how they are!" He scratched the back of his neck. "I told them 'Give me the children.' I didn't realize it would be _only_ children."

Aziraphale blew out a breath. "The oldest child in that room is fourteen years old, fifteen at a maximum. We can't expect any of them to take on real adult responsibility. Noah and his wife are advanced in years and past the point of full-time child rearing. That leaves three adult human couples. Assuming we can somehow talk them all into this, they would have to take on twelve children each, in addition to however many they would have naturally. You and I both know that humans are terribly irresponsible about such matters. And, quite frankly, I wouldn't trust Ham with a turtledove."

Quiet rage underlined every word he spoke, his voice growing softer and more painfully righteous as he went.

Crawly was silent for a moment.

"I'll do it," he said.

"What?"

"You were right. It was irresponsible of me to bring just children with no plan for taking care of them. Noah's little clan is going to have a hard enough time on their own; I can't foist three dozen children on them. I created this mess, and I'll sort it out. I'll raise all the children myself."

Aziraphale felt the ichor drain right out of him. "You'll _what?"_

Crawly shrugged. "So long as you aren't planning on smiting me right away, I'm an immortal being, Aziraphale. I've got decades to spare. Spending two and change raising some human children seems like an excellent use of my time. If Hell checks up, I'm sure I could even spin it as demonic. A whole generation that wasn't meant to live, raised by a demon and influenced towards the dark. Sounds like an excellent foundation for the new human society, don't you think?"

Aziraphale gaped at him. "No!"

"No?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"My dear boy, how would _you_ react if I said the next human generation was to be raised solely by an angel and taught to love God above all else?"

Crawly arched an eyebrow. "Was that not the Divine Plan?" he asked. "With Noah and his family and their descendants? Before I entered the picture and screwed everything up?"

He faltered. "The Flood was to give them a fresh start," he said. "Like wiping the slate clean. No debts against them. It was not about--"

"Oh, come off it!" he said. "You and I both know the real reason for the Flood, and it had nothing to do with humanity at all! There's a bunch of newly-fallen demons out there, living with their extremely mortal families in flimsy little houses made of stone and mud. They've been having hybrid children by the dozens, and every last one of them would have been immortal if it hadn't been for your _good buddy_ Gabriel. God was worried about widespread contamination to the human stock," he said. "So she wiped every last one of them out, like it was a bloody extermination."

Aziraphale drew himself up. Took a fortifying breath. There was an expected answer to this. The archangels had been telling everyone all the same thing, and now Aziraphale had no choice but to tell it to Crawly too.

In that moment, he hated him for putting him in that position.

"Intermarriage is forbidden for a reason."

"Yeah," he said. "The fear of the punishment, right?"

* * *

Aziraphale spent the next thirteen days exactly with Noah's family. He took care of the animals. He spoke with the adult humans, who were lovely people, mostly. Ish. He helped shear a sheep and took care to give extra protection to a newborn litter of kittens. Wouldn't do to have them getting trampled underfoot.

Then the rain stopped.

It had rained for forty days and forty nights. Aziraphale had-- quite foolishly-- thought that would be the end of it. But then the Earth was covered and the Ark was floating adrift somewhere.

150 days later, the waters had dried up enough for the Ark to settle down on top of the mountains of Ararat. It was still completely submerged, of course. If one crawled out of the skylight and stood on top of the Ark, the only thing visible as far as the eye could see would be water, an endless sea of water on top of what was meant to be a continent.

Two and a half months later, exactly eight months since the rain had started and the door to the Ark had been sealed shut, the tops of the mountains were visible. Like sporadic, tiny icebergs. Made of stone and connected to something deep.

Noah would open the skylight and send out a raven, and it would inevitably return a few hours later, having absolutely nowhere else to go. Eventually, he swapped out the raven for a dove. It came back once with an olive sprig in its beak, and Noah waited just seven more days before he declared it safe and opened the door to the Ark.

Humans stepped out into sunlight and dry land.

The Flood had begun in Noah's 600th year of life, in the second month, on the 17th day of the month. The humans returned to living on the Earth in the 601st year, in the second month, on the 27th day.

Aziraphale had been an absolute fool to think 40 days was a long time. He had spent 27 precious days on the Ark with Crawly and children and capybaras, feeling absolutely full of heavenly joy and nervous, excited energy. And then he had spent 338 more days with Noah's dull, occasionally obnoxious family, feeling the weight of every single one of those days. He was a fool.

But, at the very least, he had had time to think. And when the adult humans got off the boat, he went down to its lowest level to find the stowaways.

"Okay," he said. "I've decided to help you."

 _"Help_ me?"

"With raising the children."

"What?!"

"You heard me." Aziraphale put his hands on his hips. "I'd like to help. Just because you created the problem doesn't mean you have to solve it on your own. I'd feel more comfortable knowing the children had _some_ good influence in their lives."

Crawly leaned back against the wall in a posed slouch. "I've already talked to them. The kids are aware of the situation, and they know that I'll be the one taking care of them. To be perfectly frank, they seem to have latched onto me over the past year. What they desperately need right now is stability more than anything. If you say you want to help, it'd be just that: helping."

"I won't steal your children away from you, Crawly, don't worry about that," he said. "I believe in situations such as this, as the humans say, 'two heads are better than one.' I've never known a human couple with more than fifteen children, and even then, they tend to be a bit more spread out in years."

"I am not a human. I could easily handle twice that number, and I have magic on my side. If--"

"My dear," Aziraphale said. "I'm not doubting your capabilities. Doubtless you've done quite well for the past year on your own. I would just like to-- lighten the load, as it were."

Crawly's snake eyes squinted suspiciously, and Aziraphale got the impression that he was very much being seen _through._

"Well, I'd love the help," Crawly said. "But you'll need the kids' stamp of approval first. Don't worry about it too much, though. If Meleas likes you, you're in."

* * *

**The Ararat Mountains, 2999 BC**

A joint effort of miracles had smuggled all thirty-six children off the Ark without Noah's family noticing, and then further built a sprawling complex of a hut just down the mountainside.

They had all settled in with surprising ease.

Aziraphale was currently sitting outside on an old tree stump beside their fire pit, along with six of their children. He would occasionally turn the plucked bird that was roasting over the fire, but mostly he was using a mortar and pestle to grind up wheat berries. Jasiel was doing the same, and the other five children were plucking the wheat berries from their plants.

They had a bit of a field, growing on a softer sort of hill nearby. They didn't actually need it, of course. But bread tastes better homemade than miracled, and he and Crawly had been making a firm effort to teach the children all those pesky human skills they would need as adults. All of the kids that weren't turning wheat into flour with Aziraphale were in the fields with Crawly, harvesting their small crop with scythes and loading it into wheelbarrows to deliver over to the fireside.

Jasiel dumped out her mortar into a wooden bucket, and Dan wordlessly dropped fresh wheat berries in for her.

"Aziraphale," Hadassah said hesitantly. She was the oldest child present, about sixteen or seventeen. "Did you have a family before the Flood?"

"No, dear. Angels don't have families."

"That's not true," little Dorcas piped up. "You and Crawly are married."

"Yeah!"

"Wha--"

"Yeah, why're you lying? You're married."

"Booooo."

"My next door neighbor was an angel married to a human, and they had kids and everything. Angels do too have families."

"Yeah, my old teacher was married to an angel! So was the butcher!"

 _"Children,"_ Aziraphale said, just a bit harshly. "I'm afraid you are mistaken. Intermarriage is forbidden for angels. All of those people you are remembering, they... Well, they Fell, darlings. They became demons."

There was a beat of silence.

"That's the same thing," Imnah said.

"Yeah!"

"We still called them all angels."

"Crawly said they weren't even going to get any assignments from Hell for their first hundred years. If you aren't doing demon things, then you aren't a demon."

"That is most certainly _not_ true," came Crawly's voice. All of them turned to see her approach, rolling a wheelbarrow full of freshly-harvested wheat out in front of her. "I assure you, I am a demon no matter what I am doing at the moment. I am a demon when I am sleeping, I am a demon when I'm braiding all of your hair, I am even a demon when I'm telling funny stories. It's one of those permanent states of being. Inescapable, whether you like it or not."

Dorcas set down her wheat and ran over, flinging herself at Crawly in a hug and burying her face in her stomach. Crawly smiled and stroked through her hair.

"You and Aziraphale are married, right?" Dan asked. "'Cuz he's been lying to us."

"What." Crawly paled.

Aziraphale leapt up from his stump, nearly upturning his mortar and pestle in the process. "They're just-- they're just being kids," he stammered. "They assume that their only two parental figures must be married. It's natural. I haven't said anything."

Crawly-- thank _God--_ nodded. Tension deflated from Aziraphale like air from a balloon.

"I don't get it," Jasiel said. "If Mehetabel and Rama are married, then why aren't you? What's the difference?"

Mehetabel and Rama had been two of the oldest children rescued from the Flood. They were both almost twenty, maybe, by now, and a few months ago, they had come to Crawly and Aziraphale and announced their intentions.

Both immortals had nearly fainted dead in shock. They had immediately had a mutual crisis over the idea of the kids growing up. It was still a little bit ongoing, to be honest.

They had had a ceremony for the young couple a week later. Their whole community had gone to a clearing in a nearby woods. Everyone had threaded copious amounts of flowers into their hair, and the audience sat as quietly as could be expected in the long grass. Aziraphale had said a few words about love and given them a blessing. The couple had each had a piece of braided cloth around one wrist, linking them together symbolically. The kids had cheered and whooped (and make mock retching sounds) when it was over, and then they had all gone back to the massive hut to have small cakes and fresh berries.

Mehetabel and Rama had been building a hut of their own nearby all summer. It looked like they would be ready to move in before the first frost hit.

"Mehetabel and Rama love each other. They've both made vows to always do so, and to support and protect each other," Crawly said.

"And you and Aziraphale haven't?" Hadassah asked, hands on her hips.

"No, of course not," Crawly said. "Aziraphale is only here to help out with chores a bit. We aren't together."

Imnah set down her wheat, glared at them both, and stalked away.

"So are you saying you don't love each other?" Hadassah asked.

"No of course not," Aziraphale said. "You misunderstand. As an angel of the Lord, I have love for all things. Everything that She has ever created. I love the trees, and the animals, and the sunlight, and all of you children, and even demons like Crawly."

"But not special," Dan said, like it was a question. "You love Crawly the same way you'd love a flower."

"Yes, exactly," Aziraphale said. "That's the situation exactly."

* * *

The hut, while large, had been built with a slapdash miracle performed with two separate magics and almost no planning. As such, it had just enough rooms for all the children and also one left over for the adults. It had not occurred to Aziraphale at all to create a room for himself. Crawly, fortunately, enjoyed sleep and had remembered.

They had realized this design flaw the first night in the hut, when it had been a form of Hell trying to get all the kids to go to bed, and over half of them had refused on the grounds that "Aziraphale was staying up." And now Aziraphale goes to the bedroom every night in a timely manner so as to set a good example, even if he rarely actually sleeps.

But Crawly does, and the bed is comfy, so at the very least, they both put on pajamas and crawl in for a few hours. The nights get cold on top of the mountain, and it seems to affect Crawly quite acutely, the poor thing.

The demon burrowed under the blankets, curling up in a tight ball on her side, facing Aziraphale. The angel settled in a bit less snugly. Crawly was just going to steal all the blankets anyway, and besides, angels ran hot. And really, it was completely unreasonable to even be using that many blankets at this point in the year, but Aziraphale assumed it would make sense for a demon to have their indulgences.

It had been discovered that not having the weight of at least five different blankets pressing on her form would _always_ result in Crawly twining her entire body around Aziraphale in her sleep, and quite literally latching onto the nearest heat source.

Which was inconvenient.

And embarrassing.

And Aziraphale had absolutely no other thoughts, opinions, or emotions related to the matter.

"Was it true, what you said?" he asked. "The newly Fallen had no assignments for their first hundred years?"

A head of red, wavy hair popped up from the covers. "Yeah," Crawly said. "Of course."

"Why? Is it always like that? Do demons need... a sort of recovery period, from Falling?"

"No, that's not it at all," she said. "I mean, yes, Falling hurts, and some do get physically injured. But the hundred-year break is new. It's just for those of the Second Fall."

"Why?"

"...They Fell to be with mortals, Aziraphale," she said. "They only have so long to do it. It'd be cruel to rip them away from their families just to put them to work right away."

"Well, yes," he said. "But isn't cruelty what Hell is known for?"

"Not about that," she said. "That's about one of the only rules the place actually has. You don't disrespect what a demon Fell for. No matter how stupid or trivial the sin seems to you. Good way to get the entire demon horde on your bad side. You wouldn't just be tortured for that, you'd be-- outright killed. No. No, Hell grants family leave. That one's non-negotiable."

"Huh," Aziraphale said. "I never would have thought. It almost seems kind."

"It isn't," Crawly said firmly. "Believe me, it isn't. There was this one demon who Fell for gluttony, and someone else made fun of him-- he was really sad and he had been stress-eating nonstop in Hell's cafeteria. Anyway, the other demon comes up and starts picking on him over it, and he was dead in less than five minutes. It was brutal. Gruesome. Just because Hell has literally one standard doesn't mean it's suddenly _nice_ or anything."

He thought about that. "What did _you_ Fall for?"

"No," Crawly said. "No, I'm ssorry, I--"

"Oh! No, _I'm_ sorry, I didn't mean to pry or to make you uncom--"

"It'ss not that-- I jussst-- You wouldn't like it," she said. "It's not sssomething that you want to hear."

"Ah," he said faintly. He swallowed.

His mind was racing, thoughts swirling around, which was very inconvenient, because Crawly didn't want him to know, and that meant he most certainly didn't want to think about it, and what if he figured it out, what if--

"Hell has a cafeteria?"

"Yep," Crawly said, popping the 'p'. "The demon Ukobach. Official frycook of Hell and inventor of fireworks. Apparently the food is so toxic that it kills mortals instantly on contact."

"Oh?" Aziraphale turned over on his side, propping his head up on his elbow. "And how did anyone figure that out?"

"Oh, simple really. Ukobach thought he'd expand and open up a restaurant chain on Earth. It did not work out."

He snorted, suppressing a grin.

"...You're laughing."

"I am not! How dare you!"

"You are too! I totally heard you!"

"I have _no_ idea what you are talking about. I am a proper angel, and I would never laugh at something like that."

Crawly grinned, staring in the general direction of Aziraphale's face. She wasn't too big on eye contact, he had found. In fact, he didn't think she had ever quite managed it, one-on-one, but it had been known to happen accidentally sometimes and unnerve the children.

"As if Heaven could do any better," she said.

"I'll have you know that Heaven did have a kitchen for a while there, and was serving manna. It was quite popular with the deceased human souls."

"Oh yeah? Then why aren't they still doing it? What happened?"

"Well, the matter was put under review, and the archangels decided that eating purely for the pleasure of it was... gluttonous."

Crawly frowned. "You eat."

"Well," he said. "I mean, it's not a _proper_ sin. It's just... borderline behavior. Nothing wrong with eating, really. Especially since I am setting a good example for the children. It's a personal matter of conscience." He nodded.

"That's some bullshit," Crawly said. "Gabriel's a dick."

Aziraphale gasped.

"What? It's true."

"How do you even know who Gabriel _is?!"_

"I mean, I was literally an angel in Heaven at one point. We were kind of just discussing that exact thing. Thought you knew."

"But..." he floundered. "I thought the demons all lost their memories of Heaven?"

"No, that's... No, angel," Crawly said. She turned over to face the other way, with her back to him. "It's late. I should get to sleep. Goodnight."

"...Goodnight," Aziraphale said, frowning.

* * *

**The Ararat Mountains, 2982 BC**

Crawly placed one last heap of dirt on the grave and patted it down gently with the shovel. He stepped back, and Aziraphale stepped forward, putting the engraved stone marker in place.

DORCAS

She had lived 25 years. That wasn't so great, but they had been (mostly) 25 happy years. She was also the first of the children they'd had to bury.

It had been 22 years since the Flood started. The Earth was dry, the water levels were as close to back to normal as they were going to get. Every single one of the children had moved out and made their own place for themselves. Crawly and Aziraphale had been promising since their first couple got married that they could all come to them whenever they needed anything, that none of them should try to be pridefully stoic when they could just ask them for help.

But the children-- the _adults,_ the humans-- had needed less and less help as time went on. The demon and the angel were sharing a large, empty hut. The humans had expanded the field and found new places to plant new fields. As time went on, more of them had built their huts farther and farther away, closer to a nearby valley. The sporadic traps around the woods had been turned into an organized hunting outfit, and Dan had built a little building specifically for butchering and curing meats in. Inmah had become proficient at weaving, and while every family generally did their own weaving, hers was the one the townsfolk came to for specialty work and dyes. Her own children were just as skilled as she was, and frankly, Zillah might be moreso.

Sometimes, the humans would stop by their old hut to visit. Crawly had an impressive herb garden now. Plenty of free time. No longer had to rush after thirty-six growing children.

More often, the humans would invite them over for dinner, or just to visit. None of them _needed_ any material help anymore. They occasionally asked for miracles, almost always frivolous ones that they could do without. Even just for advice or a listening ear, Aziraphale and Crawly were... redundant, at this point.

Noah and his family and their descendants had come down lower on the mountain and merged with their community about three or four years ago.

"It's time for us to move on, isn't it?" Crawly said.

Said. Not a question.

"I suppose so," Aziraphale agreed. "Seems a shame. It went by so fast."

"Even the humans say that," he said. "We knew this day was coming."

"Yes, but I never thought about it."

Crawly gave a weak smile. "Neither did I."

Blue light shifted, rays spinning and extending and reaching. Crawly took Aziraphale's hand and shook it.

"It was lovely working with you, Crawly," Aziraphale said, voice warm. "These past 22 years have been a delight, and I am honored to have come to know and live with you during that time. You're a remarkable person, truly."

"As are you, angel," he said, throat feeling tight. "I..."

He hoped he'd see Aziraphale again. But he couldn't really say that, could he? Aziraphale was an angel. Crawly was a demon. They were only ever meant to fight.

Crawly fidgeted awkwardly and picked up his walking stick to fill the space of time. It was easy to spot: the only red thing on the entire mountain. To Crawly's eyes, anyway.

The stick was hazy beams of red. Aziraphale was hazy beams of blue. Everything else around him was completely pitch black. Turns out plants only glowed in the Garden of Eden.

It suddenly occurred to him that it would be hell trying to walk down off this mountain while blind and alone. Oh, he could do it, sure, possibly even without needing to perform any miracles. But it would suck the entire time and it would be such slow going and what was he going to do once he got to the bottom? Walk across the desert for a few years until he bumps into an ocean? Use a miracle to point him in the direction of a different continent? No, he's just going to have to teleport anyway. Might as well get it over with.

Not to mention the pain inherent with walking. Crawly was really never meant to have legs.

"Where are you going after this?" he asked, feeling slightly raw. "Europe? South America? I hear the Arctic Circle has... bears. Some light thingies. Supposedly colorful."

"Ah, I, eurgh, might stick around, actually," Aziraphale said. "I'll build a new hut, of course. No sense rattling around in that big old empty one."

"Oh."

This was the current center of human civilization. Of course Aziraphale was sticking around. If Crawly was a responsible demon, he would too.

They could just no longer justify living together, and they'd have to separate.

Like they'd always said. They weren't married. This was just for the convenience of sharing childcare responsibilities. Those responsibilities had disappeared, and now, so would Crawly.

Sharp, aching pain twisted through his chest.

"It was--" Crawly swallowed. His pulse was in his ears. "It's been a privilege."

A pause. "Wou--"

"Bye."

* * *

**North America, 2943 BC**

The demon Phenex had come to her adversary in supplication. She had pleaded for mercy and begged forgiveness.

Phenex was an interesting demon. She spoke only in song, and had the voice of a child. Her songs were so beautiful as to be able to fully hypnotize and control any human foolish enough to listen. Her adversary, Aniel, had learned to be a very careful angel, and to never _ever_ judge by appearances.

"Twelve hundred years," they said.

Phenex looked up at them with watery, soulful eyes, orange and seeming as lively as fire. Phenex looked very beautiful and very innocent, and she knew that and used it to her advantage.

But her angel knew that too.

"Focalor only has to wait one thousand years," she said. "How is it fair that I have to wait more? Has God been changing the rules?"

"God never changes." Aniel folded their arms. "The policy was put under review. It was determined that 12 was a more holy number, and so 12 centuries you shall wait. You should be thankful. You must completely make your mind over and cultivate the right heart condition to be redeemed. You must take off the old personality and put on the new. You'll need the extra time, believe me."

Phenex nodded, looking down and biting her lip. "I can do it," she said. "I-- You'll help me, won't you?"

"As much as I can," Aniel said. They held out the contract.

Phenex plucked a feather from her wings and signed her sigil, hellfire sparking on the page.

* * *

**Australia, 2837 BC**

Hell has a very active rumor mill.

When Focalor made his deal, everybody had known about it within less than a decade. The idea of demonic redemption was... controversial, to say the least. It had swept through the halls of Hell by storm. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone was also very deliberate about what they said to who about it.

It was commonly held that anyone making deals like that was a traitor. They didn't rebel against Heaven just for demons to give up and go back as soon as the going got tough. The demons making deals with angels were traitors of the worst sort, lowlifes, spineless, completely lacking in any sort of convictions or moral integrity. No devotion to the cause whatsoever.

Fair game, open targets. Anyone who wanted to try to tempt them into sinning again and ruin their deal was absolutely encouraged to try.

When Focalor's deal became public knowledge, he was ripped back down to Hell and tied to a rack on the second level, where he had been being continuously tortured ever since. Prince Abaddon had promised that one word of renunciation and it would stop.

Focalor's fate was one whispered about tensely, an air of disapproval in the words, no matter what anyone thought about it. If any demons were sympathetic or thought him a martyr, they kept it a secret.

And still more demons made deals like it was a trend going rapidly out of fashion, and they all suffered horribly violent consequences.

Marchosias was different, though, and smart, and that wasn't going to happen to xem. Xe wasn't going to get caught and tortured because absolutely no one was going to know that xe made this deal.

Xe put xir adversary's heavenly sigil in the center of the summoning circle, the very final rune. Xe lit the candles, and finally, mumbled the incantation under xir breath, eyes closed and face heavenward.

A flash of lightning, and Chavakiah was standing before xem.

Ey had expectation in eir eyes, the quiet knowledge of someone who knows exactly what is about to happen.

"Well?" ey asked. "What have you summoned me for?"

"You know," Marchosias said. "You always know."

"Yes," Chavakiah said. "But I'll have you say it anyway. Procedure, you know. You'll want everything to be above board."

Xe nodded. "I want to make a deal," xe said. "For redemption. Like the others did."

"It'll take 1200 years."

Xe shrugged. "I've got the time."

Ey eyed them warily. "You understand that this is serious?" ey asked. "If you aren't earnest in your desire, if you're just wasting Heaven's time, there'll be consequences. You have to put forth a real effort."

"I will," xe said. "I promise. I will. But--"

Chavakiah straightened, visibly closing off before xir eyes. Marchosias held up a hand.

"Hear me out, hear me out. I just-- I don't want anyone to know. The other demons, they've... Can you keep this quiet? Just a private little deal between the two of us?"

"No," Chavakiah said flatly. "God is not someone you can serve while being ashamed of the association. The proclamation and vindication of Her name is paramount. To bear Her name is an honor, and you must show Her honor in return. If you aren't willing to suffer a little persecution for the sake of pure worship, then you aren't ready to make this deal."

Marchosias's eyes hardened. Xe snatched up a quill and yanked the contract from xir angel's hands, signing it hurriedly.

Xe was too ready.

Xe had to be. Xe'd _make_ xemself be.

* * *

**Shinar, 2714 BC**

The humans were a bit skittish. Rainbow or not, the Flood had shaken them up. Afterwards, they had all decided to stick together and not wander too far off. Strength in numbers, and all that.

Someone named Nimrod had proclaimed himself king, and he was... a good king. Strong. A mighty hunter. Capable of procuring great amounts of food.

He also happened to think God sucked and was gaining quite a reputation because of it. People were beginning to use his name to indicate a certain type of person.

Despite how the more traditional of the population viewed him, King Nimrod was generally approved of by all, it's what allowed him to be king. And currently, he had an idea.

A brilliant idea. An unprecedented idea. One hell of an idea.

The worst part of it, Aziraphale thought, was that there wasn't the slightest whiff of demonic presence around here. He knew Crawly couldn't have gone far-- wouldn't have, with all the excitement this region was liable for-- but there wasn't a touch of influence anywhere in Shinar. No one had tempted Nimrod into this. No one had whispered into the ears of his followers that it was a good idea. No one had forced the entire local human population to go along with this. They were doing it all on their own.

With great enthusiasm for the task, too, it seemed.

The construction site was expansive. Bigger than the "village" just aways from it. A lot of planning had gone into it. Despite King Nimrod's reputation, he was not rushing into this foolishly or without thought. The greatest minds available had spent years working on the designs. The locals had even invented bricks for it. The foundation was massive, and as sturdy as it was possible to make it. Every human capable of working was on the project. Well, the ones that supported Nimrod and wanted to, anyway.

They had just finished the fifth story and were putting in the support beams for the sixth.

They had never banded together like this before. They had no reason, really, to be doing this. The only thing they were truly gaining was the sense of satisfaction and security they were so certain the Tower was going to give them.

But it was Aziraphale's job to make sure that didn't happen.

There were other angels here as well. Six of them, to be precise.

The order had been clear.

**Look! They are one people with one language, and this is what they have started to do. Now there is nothing that they may have in mind to do that will be impossible for them. Come! Let us go down there and confuse their language in order that they may not understand one another's language.**

Seven angels. Seven languages.

They took off at once in an unspoken rush. They flew in and out of the construction site, unseen and unfelt. A simple touch was all it took. The humans didn't even realize the language in their head had been changed. They were simply shocked when they tried speaking next and couldn't understand what anyone else was saying.

The surrounding city, too. No one could be left unaffected.

Aziraphale flitted around on ghostly wings, tapping humans on their shoulders or backs or heads. His stomach felt queasy, but he hadn't even eaten anything in a few centuries. It made no sense.

Ariel got the very last one. She stood in front of King Nimrod himself, and she put a finger to his lips. He paused, frowning, then shook his head and kept talking, but his words were different now.

Six angels flitted off, whooshing away in blasts of light and wind. Aziraphale stayed behind. He was a principality; he was going to watch over these humans.

The next few days and weeks and years were excruciating. The humans slowly realized there were a few that spoke their same language, and they grouped together and split off, going their separate ways. Translation was a futile effort. God had ensured that. They went from united in a goal to completely separate, occasionally hostile groups. More often than not, individual families had been ripped apart, by an artificially-created language barrier. The only universal word was the new name for the city that almost was. In the valley of Shinar, there was a half-built tower called Babel.

The construction project went unfinished. It lay abandoned, crumbling and slowly filling with sand. Not a single brick was ever laid on it after that day.

Humans were not meant to reach for the heavens.

King Nimrod went down in history as a fool.

* * *

**Canaan, 2574 BC**

Abram was a chosen and blessed man of God. His offspring would be numerous and fill the Earth, as many descendants as there were particles of dust, as there were stars in the sky. It had been promised him many years ago.

He was 85 years old currently, still childless, and he and his wife Sarai were far past impatient at this point.

So they had decided to use a surrogate.

Sarai and Abram had become extremely, _extremely_ rich over the years. They had initially left Ur with Abram's nephew Lot, and then they had all proceeded to become so excessively rich that they had to part ways, as their herds of livestock had grown so large that it had become impossible for them to graze together and their separate multitudes of herdsmen had been getting in disputes over it. They had become so rich that years later, there was a war of four kings allied against five kings in the Valley of Siddim, and Lot (living in Sodom at the time) was taken captive, and when allies of Abram told him of it, he simply mobilized his private army of 318 trained men "born in his household," and went up and rescued his nephew. Abram was so rich that when King Bera of Sodom offered him all the spoils of war for having rescued them all, he scoffed and said he would not take even a sandal lace from him, not out of any humility on his part, but so that King Bera wouldn't be able to brag about it himself.

Abram had been promised all of the land of the Kenites, the Kenizzites, the Kadmonites, the Hittites, the Perizzites, the Rephaim, the Amorites, the Canaanites, the Girgashites, and the Jebusites, everything from the Nile to the Euphrates. It didn't matter that other people were currently using that land. It was Abram's, and for Abram's descendants.

For the couple that had been told they owned so much of the world, the only problem with all of this was that they had no one to inherit it.

They had picked up a servant during their brief stint in Egypt ten years ago named Hagar. Hagar had grown up from the tiny servant girl she used to be, and was now a beautiful-- fertile-- young woman. She was Sarai's servant, and it was Sarai's idea to have Hagar bear children for her. She gave Hagar to Abram, and explained her idea, and he had relations with her and she became pregnant.

Hagar sobbed when she realized her condition. She was listless and heartbroken for a week.

Then she got angry.

Hagar was pure incandescent rage towards Sarai, and Sarai got snippy and fed up and picked a fight with her husband over it.

"The injury done to me is your fault," she said. "I was the one who put my servant in your arms, but when she realized that she was pregnant, she began to despise me. May God judge between me and you."

Abram had huffed and thrown his hands up. "Look! Your servant is under your authority. Do to her whatever you think is best."

Sarai had then decided to humiliate Hagar so as to remind her of her place.

Hagar ran away that night.

She had made good mileage, Aziraphale had to give her that, for a pregnant woman traveling by foot in the desert. She had reached the oasis in the wilderness halfway to Shur by sunup, and had decided to rest there for the day and continue walking by night. That was where Aziraphale found her.

She looked so peaceful, sleeping, so young and clearly exhausted. Aziraphale felt guilt at just the _idea_ of waking her.

He felt even more guilt thinking about his actual assignment here. It was better to let her sleep, really. Merciful.

He settled in against a palm tree and waited.

It was hours after dark before Hagar woke, having slept a full sixteen hours. Aziraphale had no doubt she needed every second of it. Probably more, actually, and she certainly deserved the break.

She flinched and jerked back when she saw him, scrambling to her feet and starting to bolt.

"Wait!" Aziraphale called.

She did not.

He cursed internally and froze her on the spot, hating himself a little bit for it. He pushed off the ground with a groan and walked over to stand in front of her, a good distance away.

"My dear," he said gently. "I am not here to hurt you. I swear on my Grace I will not lay a single finger on you. But I do have to speak with you, and I'm afraid there's no getting around the matter. I'm dreadfully sorry about stopping you like that. I'm going to release you now, but... Dear, if you run again, I'll have to stop you again. I don't want to have this conversation any more than you do, believe me."

He lifted the magic off and Hagar's body sagged with released tension. She breathed in a shuddering breath and looked up at the sky for a moment. Finally, she turned on her heel and marched back into the oasis, sitting down cross-legged. Aziraphale followed and joined her.

"I don't," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't believe you," she said. "You cannot possibly imagine the pain of what I am going through. You and I both know what this conversation will be about, but you cannot possibly dread it the way I do in my soul. You have no idea. No idea whatsoever."

Aziraphale swallowed. "I apologize," he said.

Hagar said nothing. Her stare was level, accusatory, sad and fiery all at once.

"You are right. I can't imagine," Aziraphale said. "I am not human, and your situation is beyond my scope of experience. It was... That statement was very rude of me, and inconsiderate."

There was a long moment of silence.

"Thank you," Hagar said. Aziraphale frowned and waved that off.

The bugs around them hummed and buzzed. They flew around and kept landing on them, eliciting half-hearted hand waves to scatter them all over again. There were toads croaking by the water, and something small moving through the grass. The air of the desert was cool and a bit humid, the night dark and moonless.

"Have you thought of names?" Aziraphale asked.

Hagar shook her head. "What's the point? Even if I should survive giving birth, it will not be my baby to name. They will be _Sarai's_ baby. I will be a nurse to them, and maybe a nanny for a few years if I am particularly fortunate. This is the child of Abram and Sarai, and they will never know me as their mother."

"Yes they will," Aziraphale said. "God has promised Abram an heir. She made no mention of this arrangement. The couple was meant to wait and learn patience."

Hagar laughed bitterly, or maybe it was a sob.

"Wait, wait, my dear, this can be a good thing. This child will be yours. _Yours._ I have it on good authority that he will be a bouncing baby boy, perfectly healthy, and you will bear him with ease. This was never meant to happen, but since it has, you can consider this whole pregnancy to be blessed on my name. I will make it as painless as possible for you. And the child will be known as the son of Hagar."

"The son of Hagar," she said. "Excellent news. My baby will not be stolen from me. He will simply live as a servant to his own brothers all his life."

Aziraphale fell silent at that. There was more he was meant to say. A lot more. He was meant-- primarily-- to convince Hagar to return to her mistress and humble herself, to accept her rule and punishment as Sarai deemed fit. He was supposed to tell her to name her son Ishmael, which meant God Hears, because wasn't it so lovely and kind of God to send an angel to listen to Hagar's troubles? And then, finally, Aziraphale was supposed to tell her that Ishmael would be "a wild donkey of a man" and that everyone would be against him, and he would be against everyone.

If necessary, he was authorized to take Hagar back by force. Gabriel had specified that both mental or physical influence were options to him.

He had never hated an assignment more. Not even during the Flood. Not even Gabriel had told him to go down to Earth to supervise and make sure all the locals died like they were supposed to.

He hadn't really done that though, had he? He let the demon Crawly "trick" him, and 36 souls had been saved because of that, and there were no consequences and no one did anything about it, even though he had... Why, it could almost be construed as going against his orders, in a way.

He wondered if that was a repeatable phenomenon. If he didn't talk Hagar into going back, if he simply allowed her to find freedom away from that hellish place, would it really matter, in the long run? Sarai and Abram certainly had plenty of other servants. After all this, was Hagar really meant to be consoled by the fact that Ishmael would have many descendants?

Giving away the flaming sword hadn't hurt anybody. Turning a blind eye to the Ark's stowaways hadn't hurt anybody. In fact, both of those things had saved lives. Would granting a young woman and her son their freedom really be so terrible of him?

If it was and he Fell, would it not have been worth it to have done the right thing? Hagar would break, become a shell of herself, if she went back to Sarai. Aziraphale was meant to be protecting humans, not harming them. Shattering her peace of mind and self-worth was a form of harm, whether anyone else acknowledged it or not.

"Where were you going to go?" he asked.

Hagar shrugged. "I don't know. Nowhere. Anywhere but here."

"What about Sodom? Lovely place. Big city."

She frowned. "No, not Sodom."

"Well, there's plenty of other places too. More peaceable and familiar ones, even. You've become quite well-traveled in the past ten years. Let's see, there's the Negeb, there's Bethel, Hebron, actually better stay away from Hebron, Abram has people there, uhhh, you were in Hobah and the Valley of Shaveh briefly, weren't you? And then there was--"

"I don't want to go anywhere that Sarai has taken me," Hagar said. "Why are you saying this to me? It's cruel. I know you're here to take me back."

"Ah! Um, see, about that. I was thinking, and, uh, I might not actually do that!"

Hagar was not nearly as ecstatic as Aziraphale had thought she would be.

"Abram is a man with a god on his side," she said. "Whatever he wants, he gets, and then some. The god of Abram is a powerful one. Maybe the most powerful. He sent you, and he likes to test people. Don't think I'm unaware that you're a trickster spirit. You _can_ freeze me in place with a word, but you'd rather I walked back to Sarai all on my own, happy and smiling, and handed over my child in the same way."

"Now see," he said. "That isn't fair. I'm trying to help. 'Trickster spirit'? You make me sound like a demon!"

"The angels of Abram's god are demons to me."

He sobered at that. "I'm sorry. For-- for what has been done to you in God's name. I am sorry, personally and on behalf of the heavenly host. This is... I shouldn't be here. I truly do wish to help you. But if it'd make you more comfortable, I'll turn back and go on my way."

"And what will you tell Sarai, when you return empty-handed?" Hagar asked. "What would be the point of it, when Abram's personal god will just send a more obedient angel in your place?"

Aziraphale's lip twitched. "I can create apparitions," he said. "And... engineer thoughts, in a sense. We call it divine inspiration. I can make it so that Abram and Sarai see you return, and whenever they think of you, you are easily found in the background, but over time, they would think of you less and less until they forgot you entirely. No other angel would be sent. You would be free."

She laughed. "You're telling me you can change people's minds to get me to trust you? You are definitely a trickster spirit. I have no way of knowing if this is real now; if my decisions are my own."

Aziraphale straightened, giving a small smile. "I give you my word."

Hagar stared at him incredulously.

Aziraphale waited.

"...I am perceiving this as happening whether it is true reality or not," she said. "The only option to me in this scenario, whether fabricated or not, is to choose to continue running away or to turn back to a life I despise. Given this, I will choose my own freedom."

Aziraphale blinked. "You are wise beyond your years," he said softly. "Excellent choice. Now. What about Egypt?" he asked. "That's where you come from, yes? You're an Egyptian woman. You lived in the palace, before. The pharaoh gave you to Sarai as a courting gift."

"That does not make the palace my home," she said. "Not any more than Abram and Sarai's tent is my home."

"Well, I'm not mentioning it so I can return you to the pharaoh, dear, I'm wondering if you have any family we can track down."


	2. 0.27 Centuries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dumah = angel of silence, stillness and vindication in death, tormentor of the wicked after their death. Not Fallen, definitely an angel
> 
> Kushiel = angel of punishment, punishes people in Hell. Also not Fallen
> 
> Okay I know I've been focusing a lot on Abraham Sarah and Co, but they were super important and I'm done after this. The only other humans that are going to get this much attention are Jesus and Warlock
> 
> I made Isaac twelve for the end scene but his actual age isn't given and realistically, his actions and dialogue there make him seem a lot younger
> 
> Also aaaahh I meant to cover so much more time than just 27 fucking years. The next chapter's going to speed through centuries though, at least there's that

**Canaan, 2560 BC**

Two angels in the forms of men appeared before Abram and Sarai. The humans rushed about and made a great fuss, washing the feet of the angels and preparing them fine breads while they reclined under the trees of Mamre.

"Aughk," Gabriel said, looking at the plate of fresh-baked bread before him, the finest delicacy humans were currently capable of producing. He glanced over at Sandalphon, who shrugged.

Sarai looked at them expectantly.

Gabriel sighed. He picked up a piece. "Thank you for your, uh, show of devotion." He bit into the bread as if he was afraid it would bite him back. Sandalphon followed his lead.

They finished eating about half of the bread before Gabriel decided enough was enough and set it aside. "Okay," he said, wiping his mouth. "So we have some announcements."

The humans drew up closer eagerly.

"First of all, we're changing your names! Yay! Anyway, now you guys are Abraham and Sarah. Don't you like that? Tweaked the meanings a little bit. Or, you know, a lot, in the case of Sarah. God. What were your parents thinking?" he shook his head.

The humans stared at them, dumbstruck.

"Oh! Also, you're going to have a baby."

The couple looked at each other and laughed.

Gabriel frowned. "What's so funny?"

"Oh angel," Abraham said, wiping at his eye. "I am in my 100th year. My wife is in her 90th. We have passed the age of childbearing. We passed it a long time ago."

Gabriel shot a look to the side. "It's been a hundred years?" he asked discreetly. Sandalphon shrugged. Gabriel turned back to the humans. "Okay, well this baby was placed on order by God, so you two are just going to have to suck it up and have it anyway."

"You misunderstand," Sarah said. "I have lost the ability, as all women do when they age. It is no longer possible."

Gabriel stood up abruptly. Six wings shot out of him, along with thousands of purple eyes appearing everywhere. His halo manifested, and his entire corporation was consumed in holy purple fire.

 **"͕͉͛͜͝W̳̖̪̾͡͝I͖̘̩̭̿̇̏͊T̢͙̯̋͐͆Ḧ̨̛͙̬͌ ͚̭̓͝G̼̦̲̙͂͂̌̈O̰̫̅̒D ͚̭̼̪̐̈͒͞A̧̮͎͂͒̂L̢̬̪͍͛̕L̩̠̫̘͙̄̈̽̈́ ̨̩̏̄T̰̗͊͂Ḣ̢̼̈I̡͖̅̿N̡̜̳̿͘͝G̤̘̅̀S̥͚̉͞ ̣̗͗́A̢̯̯̰͐̇̂RE̡͉͙͙̣̍̃̒͋͝ ̖͆̎̑͢͟P͇͙̑̋O̬̮͛͝S̱̑S̲͍̐̋I̺̖̔̈B̳͖̺̤̠̎̄̏̓L̥̇Ě̛̜̞̠̺̃̾.͖͘"̢͈̩̫̂̌͆̃͡ͅ** he said, speaking with the voice of multitudes.

* * *

It was a few hours later.

They had all moved into the main tent of Abraham and Sarah's caravan. Gabriel had been given a glass of water, and he had calmed down.

Sarah had very painstakingly and awkwardly explained the human reproduction system to him. His frown got deeper and deeper.

While divine intervention has never been known to be _swift_ , per se, it was always timely, and let no one say that God forgot about her most devoted followers.

"Look," Abraham said. "This problem occurred to us a number of years ago. We put things in motion. I already have a son in place to inherit my lands. His name is Ishmael, and he was born to me by the woman Hagar. He's, what? He's gotta be ten by now. Allow him to stand before you, and make a covenant with my people through him."

"What?" Gabriel asked. "Ishmael? Who the-- Sandalphon, show me the records."

Sandalphon produced a scroll, handing it over. Gabriel's eyes darted across the words. He glared at the scroll as if it personally offended him and handed it back.

"Well, tough luck," he said. "That is not the approved heir. You are to have a God-sanctioned child, this year, and you're going to name him Isaac. That's final. End of discussion." He waved his fingers. "There, you're pregnant. See? It's done."

For some reason, the couple looked horrorstruck. Sarah put a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, and Abraham rushed to her (as much as he could), holding on to her in comfort.

"What have you done?" Sarah asked. "I'm ninety! The pressure and pain of a birth will kill me!"

"No, it won't," Gabriel said. "I can guarantee you that. God's not done with you yet."

* * *

After finishing up with Sarah and Abraham, Gabriel and Sandalphon headed directly to Sodom. They'd heard rumors, you see, but it really was best to check these things out in person.

Nothing they would do would be unjust, of course. If the rumors were untrue, then both Sodom and Gomorrah would be safe. If there were even so few as just ten righteous men in Sodom, then the city would be saved.

Gabriel didn't know why they were only examining the men for righteousness and ignoring the women and children. But that was policy. It wasn't his place to ask questions. The policy made sense and was perfect, whether his inferior mind was capable of understanding it properly or not.

He did try, though. He came to the conclusion that including the women and children in the examination would unfairly boost the numbers. Especially in regards to the children. They'd probably have to consider a large chunk of them innocents on principle, and then they'd have over ten righteous people, and no justice would be delivered. Sodom and Gomorrah would continue standing, thriving and growing, as swarming hives of villainy.

And that just couldn't be allowed.

Thankfully, Abraham's nephew Lot still lived in Sodom and he was ever so hospitable when they arrived. He washed both of their feet and baked them unleavened bread, which they both choked down and caused Gabriel to think murderous thoughts about the entire concept of consumption of matter for energy.

"Thank you ever so much for your hospitality," Sandalphon said. "It has been noted, and will be remembered."

He and Gabriel stood up to leave.

"Surely you aren't heading out at this time?" Lot asked.

"Oh yes, we are," Gabriel said. "We need to see the city and observe its inhabitants, so that we might judge them."

Lot opened his mouth to tell them it wasn't safe to go out like that at night, then reconsidered his words. "But where will you sleep?" he asked instead. 

"The street," Gabriel said, just a bit curt. He really, _really_ didn't like Earth. The sooner they got out of here, the sooner they got this judgement done, and the sooner they could get back to Heaven. He had to be present at an archangel board hearing later that day; Dumah and Kushiel apparently had some idea about going into Hell themselves to punish sinners, apparently they shouldn't be trusting demons to actually be doing that.

"Oh! Um... I'm not sure that's-- the safest option."

"Worry not," Sandalphon said. "We are angels."

"Yeah." Lot scratched at the back of his neck. "Yeah, but see, Sodom is kind of, a big city, and surely you've heard about it's reputation, but I'm thinking that maybe you aren't truly comprehending... the truth of the matter, and you see, I really must insist that you stay the night here!" He finished his statement by jumping in front of the door physically just as Sandalphon reached for it. "For your safety."

Gabriel would have protested further, but unfortunately, that was when the mob showed up.

* * *

People in the surrounding villages noticed the massive cloud of black smoke the next day. They reasoned that one of the more vengeful gods must have done it, and rearranged their business so as to steer clear of Sodom and Gomorrah. It was a shame about what it would do to the economy. Sodom in particular had been the biggest city in the area, with Gomorrah not that far behind.

Aziraphale raced straight there as soon as he heard the rumors. His unnecessary heart hammered in his chest, fast as a hummingbird to match his breath that didn't seem to go down into his lungs.

There wasn't a soul in sight.

The air smelled heavily of smoke and sulfur and cooked meat. Things were still burning, a bit, ash floating down and remnant flames crackling quietly. Somewhere nearby, a beam gave out and fell with a soft thud.

There were no other sounds. No humans crying, no wails of pain. No crying out for lost loved ones. There were no humans left to be heard.

Woodsmoke, boiling sap, meat, burned grain, **_sulfur._**

Aziraphale wanted to cry.

Realizing there was no one around to see him, he did.

He cried for the lost, he cried for the dead, he cried for the damned. He cried for the children of this great city. He cried for the old, and the sick, and the sinners, and every single person who was just trying to live their goddamned lives.

He stood in the center of the city and he cried until the smoke cleared and the ash had settled on top of him and the sun was creeping midway up the sky.

A rhythmic thumping crept up behind him, and he turned. There was Crawly, fresh as the newborn day, leaning on his walking stick as he approached, footsteps padding silently on the carpet of ash.

"Did you do this?" he asked. For the first time in 1500 years, he wished he hadn't given that stupid flaming sword away. Oh, he didn't really need it, he supposed, but smiting was really so much better when done properly, the old-fashioned way, or so he'd been told. "Tell me you didn't do this, Crawly."

The look on Crawly's face is... devastated. "I just got here," he said. "Wanted to make sure they'd cleared off first."

"Am I supposed to believe that?" Aziraphale snapped. "You're the most active demon in the area. Hell's main operative in Canaan! Two cities get-- get _obliterated_ right off the map, and I'm supposed to believe you had nothing to do with it?!"

"Aziraphale!" Crawly grabbed him by the shoulders, a bit oddly hesitant in the movement. "I didn't do this! I swear it, okay? I swear on anything. I've never lied to you, certainly not about something like this."

He glared at him. "Swear on something real."

Crawly tipped his chin up. "I swear on my life."

"You don't have one," he said. "Not properly. You're just gambling a bit of paperwork if you've broken the swear. Hardly a meaningful forfeit."

Crawly paused. He sucked in a deep breath. He looked towards Aziraphale's head but didn't quite meet his eyes, not perfectly. Aziraphale grabbed his chin and forced him to.

"I swear on the memory of the years after the Flood," he said. "3004 to 2982. Twenty-two years we spent together. That meant something to me. It's worth something. A great deal. I've never lied to you, Aziraphale, I'm not now, and I never will."

Aziraphale stared at him, searching his face for signs of lying. The demon's eyes were a bit unfocused, but other than that he seemed... earnest, to a degree, as much as a demon is capable of being earnest.

 _Father of the Lie,_ a voice whispered in the back of his head. _The Serpent of Eden._

But to call him on it now would be to belittle the worth of those 22 years. If nothing else, Crawly had been suitably courteous back then, and Aziraphale had too much respect for the memory of their children to deny it.

He dropped his hand from Crawly's face, and the demon stepped back, similarly letting go of his shoulders.

"You just got here?" he asked. "Bit late to the party, I must say."

Crawly raised an eyebrow. "Perfectly intentional, I assure you. I saw the smoke rise as soon as it was light enough yesterday morning. Wanted to check in, figured I'd give it a full day before heading out, though."

"Avoiding your fellows?" he asked, bitterly. "There's no reason to. The demons are hardly going to smite one of their own. I doubt they'd even be up for it; they've just pulled off quite a feat. Although," he laughed. "it seems their appetites are boundless."

He frowned. "Aziraphale," he said, voice suddenly much softer than it was before. "Aziraphale, what are you talking about. Hell didn't do this one."

"What?"

"Hell didn't do this one," he repeated. "This was Heaven. Angels. People have been talking about it; they were at the trees of Mamre just two days' past."

"No," he said. "No, Crawly, you _swore to me!_ Does your word truly mean so little? If you think I won't--"

"Aziraphale, you aren't lisstening!" he shouted. "I'm not lying! Take a moment and _think!_ Thiss whole place is soaked in holinesss, it'ss practically glowing with it! Look, can't you sssmell it?"

"No." He shook his head. He kept shaking his head, backing away, pacing in a little circle. "That doesn't make any sense. At least come up with a lie that makes _sense."_

"Azssiraphale," Crawly said, and he sounded broken, pleading.

"No!" he shouted, and the ozone was there, thick on his tongue, the air almost seeming to crackle with barely-contained lightning now that it had been pointed out. "There's-there's a storm coming, or, or-- maybe the demons used lightning! It's not like- like _only_ angels can bring it down from the sky..." He swallowed. He turned back to face Crawly, his face hardened in rage. "This whole place reeks of sulfur! It's stinking with it! This could not more _clearly_ have been an act of Hell! I--"

"Oh, who the fuck do you think Created Hell, Azsiraphale?" Crawly returned. "You wanna talk about Heaven not having a monopoly on lightning; well, I hate to break it to you, but Hell doesn't _own_ ssulfur either."

"Well they're certainly more likely to use it!"

"But they didn't!" he shouted. "But they didn't."

Aziraphale's blood (well-- ichor) pounded past his ears. The truth of Crawly's words settled on him, like the ash had, but the honesty sunk deep and sickening into his bones. Unavoidable.

"Well, what's the bloody point then?" he asked, and was his voice really that loud. "Why bother creating all these humans if God's just going to keep killing them off for sport? So what if they sinned? God took away their perfection! Of course they sinned! Why bother creating principalities if I can't actually protect the humans? What's the point? What am I here for? If it's all just--"

Crawly clapped a hand over Aziraphale's mouth, his eyes blown fully yellow and full of fear. Slitted pupils had widened out, and Aziraphale hadn't thought that was possible for him. There was no breath on his lips, no heartbeat in his chest (Aziraphale would be able to hear). 

For a moment, they stood in perfect stillness.

"Don't," he said. "Don't, okay, you need to ssstop it, alright? Right now. Not another word."

Aziraphale shoved his hand away. "And why the fuck should I?"

"Becaussse there are ssome quesstionsss you can't take back!" he shouted. "You don't want to Fall, Azssiraphale, you're jusst a bit sstresssed, you need to calm down--"

"I am not the hell _'a bit stressed!'"_

"--You need to _think thisss through._ Jusst shut up, okay? Jusst shut up. Becaussse if you ssay the thingss you're thinking right now, you won't be able to take them back. Thiss isss different from food and wine and all thosse little human indulgencsesss, Azssiraphale. There isss no 'morally gray' on thiss matter. You'll jusst Fall," he said. "And I don't think you really mean to."

His breath was reedy and shattered, high in his throat. He looked up at Crawly, and maybe for the first time ever, he really saw him. He saw an angel, Fallen, their Grace ripped from their soul and leaving him shredded in its place. He saw sulfuric, slitted eyes that were never quite able to meet his own. He saw a gnarled walking stick at least 1500 years old and flaming red curls as carefully well-maintained as he knew Crawly's hidden wings to be.

He saw the angel Crawly used to be. He saw preciously salvaged remnants, he saw permanently-inflicted damage. He saw what it meant to become a demon.

Yellow eyes gazed unfocused at his head. With a blink, they flicked back to their more human-ish, circular form-- a sign of Crawly regaining control.

Aziraphale was looking at a horror story.

"You're an apostate," he whispered. Accused.

Crawly nodded.

"Well then." He held out his hand in invitation. Crawly completely failed to acknowledge it. Deciding not to read into that, Aziraphale took Crawly's hand in his own anyways. Crawly aided the gesture, falling in line beside him.

Aziraphale unfolded his wings, priming them for flight. After a moment, Crawly did the same.

* * *

It turns out that it is not actually possible to fly while holding hands. Wings are significantly longer than arms, they need additional room so as not to be knocking into each other and causing disastrous crash landings, and any birds that aren't flying solo will fly in V-formation for a reason-- that reason being that you can ride the slipstream of the flyer in front of you and only have to do half the work you normally would. The leader and strongest flyer goes at the apex of the V, and everyone else benefits in a chain of sharing and passing on slipstreams.

So the handholding was immediately abandoned, but about as soon as they reached a good altitude, Aziraphale fell into Crawly's slipstream, which was really almost the same.

They coasted on thermals up above the clouds to a city a good thirty miles away. The trip was long, yes, but not nearly as long as it would take a human to walk, or even any other flying thing to travel. The going got tougher at night as the desert cooled, but oh, Crawly looked so lovely in the moonlight, set against stars and clouds. Aziraphale couldn't help thinking that he truly belonged in the night sky, robes rippling with the wind, wings shining inky black and beautiful, his features looking so hawklike and sharply intelligent, his hair in tumbling curls that Aziraphale ached to touch. To be perfectly honest, he was quite put out when Crawly twitched his primaries up slightly to change his angle, and then drew his wings in to dive towards the city like some sort of hurtling meteor.

Aziraphale sighed and did the same.

"Where are we going now?" he asked, turning his running landing into a quick stride to match Crawly's.

"Somewhere to sleep."

"Oh? You have friends in this city?"

"Not precisely," he said. "But I know of a man who's built a structure for his livestock. Calls it a 'barn.' It's got hay in it; we can squat there for the night."

"...But why?"

"A nap'll do you good, angel, trust me. You need to sleep the emotions of the week off. Shed them like a bad skin."

He frowned. "Will you be sleeping with me?"

Crawly frowned right back in response. "Was planning on it. Unless you don't want me to? I can... stand guard, make sure no one comes--"

"No, no, I was just-- verifying our arrangements." He cleared his throat. "Lead on, then."

* * *

Aziraphale woke up slowly, feeling very soft and warm and sleep-heavy. He quickly determined that a sunbeam shining through the slats of the barn into his eyes had woken him, and huffily miracled it out of his face.

He then realized he had Crawly pulled half on top of him, head buried in his neck and arms wrapped around his midsection. It appeared this couldn't be blamed on Crawly alone, though-- Aziraphale's arms were clutching the demon to him as well.

And, honestly, Crawly had an excuse. He was perpetually cold, would be especially so in this barn without any blankets. Aziraphale had no excuse.

Except that now, with Crawly still asleep and so comfortable against him, it would be cruel to move.

He dragged the sunbeam back mentally so that it rested on Crawly's back. Hopefully, it would warm him more than just Aziraphale's arms could, Grace burning up inside him or no. He pressed a friendly kiss to his companion's head and closed his eyes.

Crawly had been so right. He did need this.

And, just like that, the reason _why_ slammed back into him and shattered his sunny peace like glass.

So he laid there and worried quietly for three more hours before Crawly woke up.

The demon snuffled, smacking his lips and shifting against him. He rolled off of Aziraphale politely, leaving cold air in his wake.

Aziraphale gave a slight pout of disappointment, but Crawly ignored it completely, the bastard.

"Are you feeling better now?" was the first thing that he asked.

"No," he said honestly. "But I won't be asking any damnable questions any time soon, if that's what you really mean."

"You don't want to Fall, Aziraphale."

"And you've made that decision for me, have you?"

Crawly's eyes narrowed. _"Do_ you want to Fall?"

Aziraphale deflated, painful emotions icing over his heart in shards. "No," he said. "No, of course not."

Crawly nodded. He settled back against the pile of hay, head resting against the wall of the "barn." "Thought so," he said. "That's what I was trying to do. If you ever really do want to Fall, then that's your business. As long as you know what you're getting into. But I won't stand back and watch you make decisions you'd regret in the morning. Not when they're... that permanent."

"And why not?" Aziraphale turned over on his side to face his companion better. "Isn't it your job to tempt me into sin? Surely nudging an angel into Falling would earn you a commendation. It'd be quite a feather in your wing."

"Not one I'd want to have, though," he said. "In my opinion-- and I know it isn't a popular one-- a sin doesn't count unless you mean it. Sure, I could implant a bit of wrath in a human's mind and watch them give in to the temptation. But that isn't something they would have done on their own, if I hadn't been there. If they wouldn't have done it naturally, without any outside influence, then does it even count? It's like... it's fake, it's cheap, ya know? And besides, that's... It's small scale. Why spend a month watching a human and tailoring their most likely sin and a perfect temptation for them, when instead you can just put them in a situation where they'll show you it themselves? I _could_ put wrath into a human's heart, and they might sin or they might not, _or_ I could do something to obstruct the main road running through a town and then we'll see who's really wrathful."

"Isn't that exactly what happened to me, though, dear?" Aziraphale smiled ruefully. "I was put in an unusual situation, and I felt heavily inclined to sin."

"That's different." Crawly waved a hand.

"How so?"

"You're different. You're good. Too good to Fall because of a silly mistake. Besides, you can't... Well."

 _You can't Fall for empathizing,_ but you can, and that wasn't true.

"You shouldn't Fall just because you felt kind when you weren't allowed to," he said, and there, he meant that one. Fully.

Aziraphale faltered. "Can I ask you a personal question? You're under no obligation to answer it."

"Go ahead."

"Was the sin you Fell for apostasy?" he asked. "Or did that come later?"

He nodded. "I Fell for it. Bit of a-- dramatic moment. I was--" Aziraphale had been there. But he didn't remember. The archangels had wiped all angelic memories of it. If Crawly told him, would it hurt him? Would he remember? Would he still not remember, and think Crawly a liar? Would it cause alarm bells to start going off in Heaven's offices, and Aziraphale to be snatched away in a blaze of light?

It was amazing they were allowing Aziraphale to associate with him at all. Did the archangels not know about their 'incidents'? Had they included themselves in the memory wipe? No, couldn't have, that was a terrible idea, monumentally stupid. Michael and Uriel would never have allowed it. And wasn't Airaphale assigned as his official adversary? Other demons with Earth postings had official adversaries.Gamigin had Ieuiah, Halphas had Haamiah, even Paimon had Haziel, and Paimon's too ridiculously powerful to truly be stopped and doesn't even hurt anybody.

Hell had nothing to do with any of the formal adversary business. Sometimes an angel just showed up and announced that they were your enemy and would be fucking up everything you tried to accomplish from then on. Sometimes demons would seek out an angel to bully. Crawly was pretty sure that Heaven took it a lot more seriously, though.

What the Heaven were the archangels playing at, though, to let Aziraphale spend this much time around him? And unsupervised too? Did they _want_ him to Fall? Did they consider him tainted by association? Was this all just to rub Crawly's face in what he'd lost? Surely they wouldn't--

"You don't have to tell me," Aziraphale said softly, and Crawly was yanked back out of his thoughts.

"No, it's-- it's fine. Just," he swallowed. "You probably shouldn't hear about apostasy anyway. Listening's the first step, you know."

There was a beat. "If my faith were truly so weak that it could be destroyed by a mere five minutes' conversation, then I don't think it could be called 'faith' at all."

Crawly snorted. "That's what we all thought. Next thing you know, Lucifer's standing on a table in the mess hall, shouting about democracy, and suddenly angels are Falling," he said. "Five minutes conversation? Some didn't even have that."

"Wait, were you _there?"_

"'Course."

"W-- Oh. Oh, right. Yes, of course you were," Aziraphale said. "You must be older than me, then, I think."

"Hm. A few days, probably," he said. "What was... going on, when you were created?"

"Oh, there was the biggest fuss," he said. "It was such a dreadful thing, had no clue what was going on, everything was a mess. I was created to be the partner for this archangel, you see, but then he was killed by demons."

"He _what?!"_

"Oh. Oh, yes, well. Not intentionally, I suppose, or at least I hope not. My archangel, he was amazing, he was the Healer, you see? And he would go down to Hell, and try to heal the demons. I suppose they must... have a great need for it, down there. Oh, but you'd know more about that than I would, wouldn't you?"

"Your archangel," Crawly prompted.

"Right! Well, he would go down to Hell, and he would heal the demons, only angels aren't meant to do that, you see? Incompatible magics. The archangels' first proposed theory was that it was the mere exposure, the repeated contact, that sapped him of his life force. But, you see, that can't be right, because you and I have had quite a bit of contact and it hasn't hurt me at all. I never felt... worn out, from being around you, or touching you. So that can't be right."

"They lied."

"No! You see, they had another theory as well. It was the healing that did it. Angelic magic pouring into a demon and not being replenished at all. It drained my archangel dry. The demons, they-- well, forgive me for this, dear, but they were quite selfish. They took and took, more than Raphael had to give, until there was nothing left of him at all."

 _Raphael._ That was the first time Aziraphale had said it. Well, the first time that Crawly had ever heard. He sat up a bit straighter, pulling his knees to his chest and draping himself over them, now slouched in the opposite direction.

Raphael. Felt strange. A bit bad.

"He died a martyr," Aziraphale said. "A true hero and a lesson to us all. I strive to do honor to his memory. To be-- To even imagine, the concept-- An archangel, the holiest of them all, killed by the abundance of his mercy, his selflessness."

"Wasn't _that_ selfless," Crawly said instantly, not thinking at all. "I mean, he was already a healer, wasn't he? He was just doing his job, really. If he had chosen _not_ to heal the demons, it would have been fucked up, so him doing it is really just the bare minimum. The standard."

For a long time, Aziraphale was completely silent. Crawly didn't think much of it, even when it dragged on, assuming Aziraphale was just considering his comments thoughtfully.

When he spoke, his voice was icy and clipped. "Raphael died for you," he said. "For your kind. I don't expect the same kind of reverence that I give to that sacrifice, but I won't just lie here and listen to you slander his good name."

"Angel, wait--"

"No, don't _'angel'_ me!" he said. Crawly heard the rustling of straw, felt a soft whoosh of air and a sudden cold emptiness beside him. "I was created to be a complement to him! It's in my very _name!_ Living up to his legacy, empathizing with those completely other to me, protecting and helping all who need it-- it's everything I'm supposed to be doing here! Or _ever!_ It's my ultimate goal while living in this mortal realm, and if you can't respect that, then you can't respect _me!"_

In a heartbeat, the blue glow of holiness, the scent of angelic goodness, was gone.

Aziraphale was gone.

* * *

**Gerar, 2559 BC**

Isaac was born, Isaac was weaned, Abraham and Sarah rejoiced.

Hagar was living contentedly in Egypt with a great support network, close companions, and her fourteen-year-old son, Ishmael. But that was privileged information, and as Isaac grew into a big, happy toddler, Sarah started thinking about her husband's other son again.

And, like Aziraphale had promised, as they were thought of, so they appeared.

And Sarah took issue with the idea of _her slave girl's_ _son_ inheriting anything alongside her precious Isaac, a literal gift from God. So she told Abraham to get rid of the problem.

The mirages of Hagar and Ishmael were sent out to wander the desert and die there, given a single skin bottle of water, as a final kindness from Abraham.

In another universe, one where Aziraphale followed orders, or a different angel had been sent, Hagar and Ishmael were not mirages. They had never been sent away to Egypt, and they lived that experience for real. And in that universe, Hagar pushed her teenage son into a bush where he stayed, and then she ran a distance away to cry, not wanting to have to watch her boy die. The water bottle had ran out a long time ago.

In another universe, God made a well of water appear before them and told them to get up and live. A promise was a promise, and Ishmael would be a great nation.

In the end, it didn't truly matter. Promises were kept, prophecies were fulfilled, both universes ended up in the same situation. The only people truly effected by the difference of those fourteen years were Hagar and Ishmael themselves. So, it didn't matter.

To anyone except for them.

* * *

**Moriah, 2547 BC**

Crawly hadn't seen Aziraphale since Sodom and Gomorrah, and the intervening years had unremittingly _sucked._

And now Abraham and Isaac were going on some father-son camping trip that wasn't a camping trip, and Hastur had told Crawly to tag along and see if there was an opportunity for temptation.

All of Hell had cottoned on to just how important this family was. Chosen ones, a nation unto God, the line that will bear Her heir, yadda yadda yadda. Abraham and Sarah were constantly plagued by demons because of this. Unfortunately, they seemed to have an equal number of guardian angels. And since "guardian angels" was just another word for "principalities," that meant that Crawly not running into Aziraphale at all during this time was fully intentional, and probably took a lot of effort. He had had three different close calls with other random angels-- ones that would actually smite a demon on sight if they thought they had a good chance of winning. He had managed to just barely run away without risking a confrontation each time.

And now he was hiking up this stupid fucking mountain with Abraham, Isaac, two servants, and a donkey. They couldn't see him, of course. It was only a minor reprieve, because no matter how careful he was with his walking stick, Crawly kept tripping almost every other step on the uneven ground. Mountain climbing is not a very blind-person-friendly activity.

Pain lanced through his legs with every step, shooting through them in blatant reminder that God did not want him here. 

Not to mention that they had set out at the asscrack of dawn _three days ago._ The pain managed, somehow, to get worse and worse with every passing day. Crawly was using a minor miracle to force his legs to keep moving at this point, and imbue a bit of numbness as relief. Not fully numb, mind, because Crawly would not be able to walk anyone without either seeing or feeling his feet.

He really, _really_ hated mountains. When this assignment was over, he wanted to fuck off to some place where he would never have to climb any mountains ever again.

One of the adults stopped walking, possibly, yellow light spinning and shifting but seeming to stay in the same general area on the plain of, y'know, blackness.

"You stay here with the donkey," came Abraham's voice. "But the boy and I will go over there and worship and return to you."

Yellow figures shifted indeterminately. Stuff was happening. Interactions were going on.

Two tall yellow blurs moved around vaguely, another tall yellow blur and a shorter one started moving away purposefully. Crawly followed those ones.

And they kept walking, and walking, and walking.

For hours.

"Father?" Isaac's squeaky, high-pitched voice asked.

"Yes, my son?"

"Here are the fire and the wood, but where is the sheep for the burnt offering?"

"God himself will provide the sheep for the burnt offering, my son."

They kept walking.

They finally got to a place on the mountain that Abraham deemed good enough for worship. And then-- painstakingly-- he spent more hours still gathering rocks and building an altar, from the sound of it. Isaac tried to help, but he wasn't quite strong enough to lift most of the bigger stones. Abraham may be advanced in years, but he was still a very active man, and most adults were stronger than children no matter what.

Crawly sank down to the ground in utter exhaustion while they worked. A rush of ichor pulsed through his legs as the pressure was taken off, and it was so acute it hurt. They continued throbbing for a good two hours, and Crawly was barely staying conscious even afterwards.

"There!" Isaac said proudly. "It's finished, isn't it?"

"Yes," Abraham agreed. "Now for the sacrifice."

A blur, the sound of flesh smacking flesh.

"No," Crawly murmured, unable to help himself. He stood on shaking legs, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Father?" Isaac's voice was even higher than before, tremulous and terrified. Crawly saw a small yellow blob, no longer standing erect. His father approached, and the boy might have scooted back a bit, he might not have, it was hard for Crawly to tell.

He could not sweep the cane out in front of him to 'see' and use it to support his weight at the same time, it could be used for one function or the other, he wasn't able to-- he was shaking-- Isaac--

Realizing what a dumbass he was, Crawly paused time.

He allowed himself to breathe.

Now technically, he hadn't _paused_ time, so much as slowed it down infinitely to the point where the difference was negligible. Truly pausing time instantly flings one outside of the universe and into whatever the fuck the sands of time are. Crawly thinks that's where God lives, but he isn't sure.

He discovered all this accidentally in 3478 BC, upon sneezing for the first time and panicking. He got too close to a flower and ended up just snorting pollen straight up his nose. It hadn't gone well for him. He wasn't back to normal for three whole days. 

Anyway, the sands of time were a deeply unsettling place to be. Crawly had got the distinct impression that he was a trespasser in a realm never meant for beings of his level to cross into.

He thought about it, sometimes. How it must have worked. Time had been the first creation. God was, and so therefore so was Time. He wondered if it had even been intentional, or if it had just sort of happened, like a human learning to breathe, God innately recognizing that She needed time in order to have space for Her thoughts and actions. He wondered if Time was a thing, like air in the metaphor, or if it had a soul too, just one that only God could perceive.

He wondered, sometimes, why the first moments of existence before even the universe itself, had not taken place in the sands of time. God had been there, Time had been there, but the sands of time had been strictly off-limits.

He wonders, but he tries very very hard not to.

He turned around slowly on the mountaintop, and yep, there it was. Glowing red, on the ground, vaguely stick-like. Crawly ambled over and picked it up.

The scent of ozone, strong, almost completely covering over the lesser scents of sugary sweetness and vanilla.

Crawly turned slowly, facing a stock-still figure of holy blue light. He looked a bit closer. Softness, kindness, righteousness, obedience. Love and faith and guardianship, a flaming sword, Then Also God Heals, patron angel of queer people and the hearth.

Aziraphale's soul.

"This needs to happen," he said, and pained rage shot through Crawly.

"He'sss a _child,"_ he said. "Ssincse when doess God demand human ssacrificsesss? I can't believe I conssidered you a friend once! If thiss iss the direction God'ss going, then I will ssstand againsst you a thoussand timess, Azsiraphale, I ssswear it. If you want to kill Issaac, you'll have to kill me firsst."

"Crawly," Aziraphale said, his beams of light shifting, though he stayed in the same place. "No one's going to kill Isaac."

"The fuck he issn't! How gullible do you think I am? No sheep for the ssacrificse, then, oh, ssuddenly Abraham sstartsss beating up hiss sson? You think I don't know he hasss the rope within hisss belt? You think--"

"Crawly! It's a test! It's all a test, that's why I'm here in the first place!"

"What?"

"It's just a test, from God, to see if he'd really do it. I was going to come here no matter what. As soon as Abraham raises the dagger to strike, that's when I'll intervene."

"A tessst?" Crawly asked. "A bloody _tesst?_ Isssaac will be traumatizsed!"

"This isn't about him."

He laughed bitterly. "Obvioussly! Who the fuck caresss about Issaac in this scenario? God hasss never once given a ssingle shit about kidsss. Made all Her angelss pop out as adultsss jusst sso She wouldn't have to deal with them. Now She needss to tessst Abraham'ss faith, sso sure, why not give little preteen Isssaac a nicse memory of hiss father tricking and manipulating him for three daysss, then tying him down on an altar'ss burnpile and holding a knife over hisss chesst? Why the hell not?"

"Crawly, just stand aside. Nothing's going to happen."

"He doesssn't need to actually have been killed for ssomething to have 'happened'!"

"Crawly, he'll be fine--"

"No, he bloody well won't! I'm sstopping thisss right now, and there'ss nothing you can do about it."

A pause.

"Don't make me smite you."

Crawly scoffed.

"I'm serious. Unfreeze time. I'll protect Isaac, you can be sure of it. If you truly doubt me, you can stand at his side and protect him yourself."

"And who will protect him when the nightmaresss come?" he asked. "When he flinchess from hisss father'ss touch? When he becomess a friendlesss wanderer, unable to trussst anyone'ss intentionss?"

"You exaggerate. It won't be as bad as that. Look, how about this? I'll put the child to sleep, and when he wakes, he won't remember any of this."

Crawly hesitated. "You sswear it?"

"I swear it."

He took a deep breath. Time began again.

Crawly waited until Abraham and his now-quiet blob son had stopped moving around, and Isaac was possibly elevated, maybe, and presumably on the altar, and then he walked over to stand closer to them, the blue light of Aziraphale opposite, juxtaposed by the red light as Crawly perceived his own body.

Abraham's light was shifting (but then the light was never still, was it?) and a yellow arc of it shot upwards, streaking out as it went--

"Abraham!" Aziraphale shouted.

"...Yes?"

"Do not harm the boy, and do not do anything at all to him, not even tell him of this encounter. You have proven yourself God-fearing, not withholding even your own son, whom you love."

And Aziraphale made a ram for the sacrifice appear within a bush, and he helped Abraham untie his son and pull him down off the altar, and Isaac woke up, sounding sleepy and dazed.

Aziraphale was reciting the list of God-given blessings Abraham was to receive and giving vague commendations for his faith, and Crawly wanted to be anywhere else.

"It was nothing," Abraham said. A snake could practically _taste_ the pride on the air. "For my God? I'd do anything."

Anything.

It rung true as a bell. Crawly felt sick.

Not just anywhere, he decided. Somewhere far, far away. China, maybe.

Yeah, China sounded lovely.


	3. 21.6 Centuries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot about the Plagues? Completely? I was gonna talk about Uzzah, skip the "settlement" of the Holy Land, and jump straight to Jesus and the Gospel. 18 years of Bible education, and I forget about the goddamn plagues. What the fuck.
> 
> Also I put a note on chapter one but I'll say it here too: apparently all those demons I mentioned trying for redemption actually DO have real listed angel adversaries, and so I changed all the names I gave to the real ones lol
> 
> WARNING for description of a painful but non-graphic (I think) death and mild (as much as possible) suicide ideation, not from any main characters though. Also mentions of other deaths, not described.

**Shandong Province, 2546 BC**

The last Crawly had ever seen had been her siblings, faces drawn and grave, looking at her from a careful distance on the very highest level of Heaven itself.

Gabriel. Uriel. Michael.

She dreams of it, sometimes. She can still see things in her dreams.

Crawly tends to sleep more than strictly necessary, but then, sloth is a sin. She’d be a pretty bad demon not to indulge.

_Your confession has been noted._

It’s the sensation of falling that wakes her up.

* * *

**Antarctica, 2207 BC**

They had agreed to meet on neutral ground. Somewhere they could both go safely, and without assistance.

Hell hadn't wanted to release Focalor, but in the end, no one was actually prepared to jumpstart the war with Heaven right this second. And Gabriel had personally shown up to make it perfectly clear that any sort of delay would be seen as both intentional and malicious, and would trigger immediate retaliation.

So now here Focalor was, standing on a cape covered in ice, nearly shivering out of his bones waiting for Hahael to show up.

1000 years was a long time. It felt even longer when you spent all of it on the rack. Focalor was fairly certain this corporation would never recover, but, well, he could always just ask Heaven for a new one. He could barely repress a giddy smile at the thought.

Heaven. He was going to be an _angel._

He was going home.

Hahael appeared, in a rush of wind and wings and ozone. She was resplendent in white, literally glowing, halo out and proud. Soft gold makeup highlighted her skin in all the most well-lit areas. She was more beautiful than Focalor had ever seen her. More dressed up and extravagant, certainly.

She extended a hand to him, and smiled.

* * *

**Heaven, 2207 BC**

It was different than how he remembered. It was exactly how he remembered.

Heaven was white and stainless steel and so saturated in light it was almost blinding. The baptismal ceremony was taking place on one of Heaven's lower levels-- one of those near-perpetually empty ballrooms that had never once contained a ball, but did occasionally see other formal events.

Focalor remembered a wedding, once.

The room was decorated in that particular godly way that the more luxuriant areas of Heaven received, as opposed to the parts that were all business. Palm fronds and laurel leaves, dates and figs and pomegranates carved in gold. Rich blue fabric to accentuate, pure white linens and gold leaf everywhere. Things appearing in sets of holy numbers. Angels drifted by, almost floating in their elegance, clothing ephemeral, modest, shining. They were all so clean, gold-dusted and beautiful in their own way, every one-- all of them seeming immaculately self-composed.

Hahael was at his side and didn't seem to be going anywhere, and Focalor was grateful. He felt out of place enough as it was-- fresh from Hell, stinking of sulfur and evil, in shabby, dark, centuries-old clothing caked stiff with his own spilled ichor. He stood out like-- Well.

He stood out like a demon in Heaven.

The holiness of the ground was burning through his feet up to his shins, but he refused to hop around like some fresh-Fallen newborn in a church. No. This was his baptism, the moment of his redemption, and he was going to pass the evening with dignity.

Angels approached to stand before him, and Focalor had an acute moment of panic trying to place their names. Hahael laid a hand on his arm.

"Focalor," their apparent leader nodded in greeting. "You may not remember me. I am the Archangel Uriel, patron of forgiveness, redemption, and Hell itself. I've been the one spearheading the demonic redemption initiative. These are my associates, Seraph Jeremiel and Throne Pahaliah. Pahaliah is the angel of conversion, understanding theology and morals in great detail. Jeremiel is sort of... the tour guide of Heaven, if you will. His responsibility is to aide newcomers into settling in in any manner he can. They're both chairmen of the board."

"The board?" Focalor asked.

"For the Committee of Demonic Purification." Uriel smiled. "You've started an entirely new revolution, Focalor. It's truly amazing. Your faith and strength is an inspiration to us all. Today, all of Heaven will bear witness to the first ever rebirth of an angel, and it's all thanks to you."

What followed was about 3 or 4 hours of being paraded around the entirety of the ballroom and shown off to everybody as The Demon That Heaven Reformed. He was made to tell his story to just about everyone there, the gory details of his Fall, what Hell was like, what made him seek this out, how he handled the 1000-year parole, was it difficult. Hahael was the only anchor in the storm. She never left his side, and though she didn't stop the angels asking questions, she was very skilled at gently redirecting them, when she chose to do so.

"--Anyway, I'm quite certain you must be sick to death of strange angels wanting to come up and shake your hand, but oh, I simply had to meet you. It's been an honor. Truly. Maybe one day, because of you and the good work you've done here, _all_ the demons can be redeemed, and Heaven can be restored to peace. I pray every night that you will be the first of many."

"Thank you, Aziraphale, but I'm afraid we'll have to be going now. It is time to prepare for the ceremony," Hahael said.

"Oh! Oh, right, of course, I--"

Hahael took Focalor by the arm and steered him through the crowd. He was guided to a back room near the head of the ballroom. Uriel was there, along with Phanuel and Puriel and Raguel. Focalor was quickly-- politely-- shoved into a closet along with a bundle of clothes.

"Put those on!" Hahael shouted.

"There will be a brief sermon," Uriel said. "At the end, you will be asked two questions. Answer honestly. Having responded correctly and shown the truth of your words through the past thousand years, you will then be baptized in a pool we have created for this. Jeremiel and Pahaliah will perform the physical act of your baptism; they will give you instructions once you enter the water."

"Instructions?" he asked, trying to figure out what a particular piece of cloth was meant to do.

"How to position your arms, the correct way to hold your breath," Uriel said. "Then they will hold onto you, one on each side, and lower you backwards into the water until you are fully submerged. They will draw you back up after a moment, and then it is done."

"You'll be an angel again," Hahael said, and something light and hopeful lodged in Focalor's chest. He opened the door to the closet and emerged, clothed in clean, simple white linen.

Hahael smiled. The other angels looked at him sternly, critically.

"Let's begin," Raguel said.

* * *

The sermon-- in true Heavenly fashion-- was magically enhanced to boom across the entire ballroom, even though said ballroom was so sprawlingly large that it required miracles. Or rather, the room used to be a normal ballroom, albeit extravagantly large, but then 10 million angels piled in, and something had to be done.

'Screens' of shimmering, colored air projected video along with it, placed periodically to afford everyone a view. Uriel stood, dignified, behind a podium, voice clear and confident as she spoke. Zadkiel and Raguel stood each to a side of her, and Phanuel and Puriel beyond them. The entire Host of Heaven was in attendance-- giddy but repressed, reverent, filled with that particular joy and zeal for God that was just so intoxicating, the kind that made humans change their entire lives, sell all their belongings, and devote every second of their time towards service of the Lord. They stood in perfect silence, facing the platform they couldn't see and watching on screens they could.

The Host stayed back a bit. And in the space left, Focalor stood, looking up at Uriel seriously, taking her every word to heart.

The sermon _was_ brief, for a given value of it being a baptismal talk, in Heaven, by and for angels, and on the topic of the first demonic redemption in history. Uriel, being the angel of repentance, confirmation, and Hell itself, had prepared a brief seven-part symposium on the matter. It lasted only a little bit longer than two hours.

Finally, her talk was over, and Uriel moved away from the podium, Selaphiel stepping in to take her place and offer a prayer that lasted over eight whole minutes, and then finally Puriel stepping in to take _her_ place.

"Demon Focalor," he said. "Former angel of the Lord and Power in Heaven. Have you repented of your sins and dedicated yourself to God to do Her will?"

"Yes," he said.

"Do you understand that your baptism identifies you as an angel in association with God's spirit-directed organization?"

"Yes."

Puriel said a few more words that flew right past Focalor's head, Selaphiel said another prayer, and then.

Zadkiel and Raguel were walking him towards the pool. Pahaliah and Jeremiel were already standing in it, wearing the same unadorned linen as Focalor, the water coming up to their waists.

His useless heart pounded loudly in his throat as he walked up the steps.

He yanked his foot back with a hiss as soon as it touched the water.

"It burns," he said.

Zadkiel and Raguel exchanged a look, beside him on the top step.

"The water is holy," Zadkiel said. "Perhaps you have trouble interacting with it due to your demonic nature."

"Just ignore it," Raguel said. "This is your baptism. It is the act that will purify you. The burning will go away; you probably won't feel anything once you're fully submerged."

Focalor nodded. He stepped determinedly into the water, wincing and grinding his teeth to keep from howling in pain.

It was bad. It was so bad. It was probably only so bad because his corporation was already so close to the brink, but dear God, he felt like he was melting. He couldn't open his eyes, but he heard angels murmuring.

It was too much, it was too much, he was openly screaming now, thrashing, trying to leave the pool, he couldn't feel his feet, _what was happening to his legs,_ strong angel arms wrapped around him and held him back, sound--

* * *

**Hell, 2207 BC**

Beelzebub sat tensely on zir throne, every muscle taut, but at the same time, making a conscious effort to look casual and relaxed.

The whispers had already reached zem, of course. Hell was buzzing with them the second the angels came down.

And now, sure enough, zir page came in and announced an archangel seeking zir audience. Beelzebub pretended to consider it for a moment before agreeing.

The doors to zir throne room were opened, and in stepped Michael, flanked by six of what were no doubt her top soldiers. Every last one of them was armed and clothed in shining white armor. Michael herself had both her shield strapped to her forearm and her hand resting faux-casually on the hilt of her sword.

"General," Beelzebub greeted.

"Your Highness," Michael said.

"To what do I owe the displeasure? You've already stolen one of my demons today. I was hoping I wouldn't have to think about the disgusting concept of angels for some time now."

"Unfortunately, it appears that Heaven's business with the demon Focalor remains unfinished. I've come here to collect him again."

Beelzebub snorted. "Again? What, did the fucker run away from his baptism? Don't tell me he left poor Uriel standing at the pool all by herself."

"Very funny. No, he was discorporated by the holy water. We didn't foresee that happening; we'll have to bring him up to Heaven to discuss logistics. Legal thinks this might have a lot of unfortunate aftereffects."

"For Heaven?"

"For _him,"_ she clarified. "A pure and holy being wouldn't have been hurt by it. They're debating whether this means he lied about repentance, or simply didn't feel enough love, or whether his faith was weak. It might be a deal-breaker in regards to his redemption."

Beelzebub huffed. "Just like Heaven. You discorporate a man, and then sue him for the pleasure. Unfortunately for you all, he hasn't popped back down here yet. Why don't you go back upstairs and we'll tell you when he does?"

Michael gave a thin smile. "Thank you for the generous offer, but I'm perfectly capable of waiting for however long this takes. Wouldn't want Focalor to get lost in the shuffle, after all."

Beelzebub sneered. "Of course."

* * *

Within three hours, speculative, not-worried rumors started to fly.

Within twelve, a full search was conducted, spanning all of Hell, Heaven, and Earth, using the angels' model for soul pinpointing.

At eighteen hours, the search that had truly been done long ago was officially called off.

At twenty, the board of high-ranking angels and demons reached their final conclusion on the matter, but decided to give it just a little more time, just in case.

At the twenty-four hour mark, the first ever true death of a celestial was recorded.

Within thirty-six hours, twenty-seven new demons had made heavenly redemption deals.

* * *

**Hell, 2000 BC**

Morale was low in Hell.

Which wasn't shocking, or it shouldn't be, anyway. It was literally Hell. It had not been designed with enjoyment and high spirits in mind. But the demons occupying it had always been considered perverse, finding pleasure in that which no one was ever meant to, and they had taken to their rebellion and evil cause with relish.

But now. Morale in Hell was-- really and truly-- _shockingly_ low.

Three more demons had died permanently in the past two centuries since Focalor. It had been discovered that any purely holy instrument would do. Heavenly weapons, namely. The demons were experimenting. Human-made blessed objects held power to a degree, but just enough to hurt, really, it took an angel blade to kill. An actual blessing was the same.

It appeared there was one thing and one thing only capable of truly killing a demon: an angel.

They were experimenting in the other direction too, of course. Hell-forged demon weapons. Cursed objects. Crawly was lucky he had kept his staff in his Fall. It was more powerful than most of the stuff down here.

The atmosphere of Hell had changed. Nobody had heard of a way or method to make people _not_ want to die yet, but the demons who made redemption deals had been taken off the torture racks at least. A lot of them had been assigned a work partner, someone more well-adjusted, and given open-ended placements on Earth.

Hell was also trying this new "positive reinforcement" initiative. To make demons feel appreciated and motivated or whatever.

Which leads us to the current scene.

Amdusias was playing loud, thunderous music on his invisible instruments, his voice belting out and amplified. The ceremony was taking place on the middle of Hell's three levels. The lowest contained the Pit, all the offices and throne rooms and presentation rooms of Hell. The top floor was where evil human souls were tortured. The middle, however, was a demonic free-for-all.

And currently holding an awards ceremony.

Crawly sat at a circular table, along with Penemue, Andrealphus, and Titivillus and Surgat, who most definitely wouldn't be winning any awards tonight. Penemue was sitting as far away from Titivillus as possible, because she fucking hates that guy. Crawly personally thinks that's unwarranted, but whatever, what does she know?

Spotlights swirled around the room slowly, probably intended to do something for the mood. Demons sat at their tables in groups, chatting quietly. Ukobach and his new subordinates had really outdone themselves on the food. It wasn't _good,_ by any means. There was just a lot of it, and it was all greasy and salty and overspiced or oversweet. There was also a pitcher at each table that never ran out and held a mostly-clear, faintly blue drink that could melt human skin. Crawly was already slightly drunk just from the fumes in the air.

Beelzebub held onto the microphone stand and swayed up on the stage, eyes closed. The music was too fast for zem to truly be moving too, and ze was already a little drunk anyway, so that was really a pipe dream.

"ShhhhhhhhhhHHHHhhh!" ze said. "Shh!"

And the music stopped.

"We are gathered here today," ze said. "To give out some fucking awards."

Scattered cheers and whooping.

"Welcome, welcome, one and all, to Hell's first ever millennial awards banquet! Yay! We're gonna-- we're gonna _reward_ you fuckers. For the... shit you've done over the past thousand years. And then we'll do it again in another thousand years! And again, and again, yadda yadda yadda."

Ze hiccuped.

"Anyway," ze said. "The first award. Grossest looking motherfucker!"

Demonic cheering.

"Hell was founded on the-- on the prizzziple of democracy, so you all voted. _Aaaand..._ the grossest looking motherfucker in Hell is--"

Ze dramatically opened an envelope.

"Decarabia!"

Everyone whooped and clapped as Decarabia went up on stage to shake Beelzebub's hand and collect her trophy.

And so it went on. Sickest burn of the past thousand years (whole story got retold, Ose was heckled in his seat), most disturbing to be around, coolest reason for Falling, worst bastardization of something (Araqiel had really outdone himself), most fucked-up act, and then it got into the _real_ awards. The ones that actually meant something, the ones that had to do with how genuinely successful a demon was.

Most souls captured. _Beelzebub, 10,489,_ award presented by Lucifer.

Biggest sin. _Moloch, humans are sacrificing children to him._

Heaven's Most Wanted list-- the top ten, anyway.

Beelzebub worked zir way up, giving a little speech about how each demon came to be so feared, their tactics in thwarting their angelic adversary, the terrifying sins that had led them to becoming a dark legend in Heaven, the stuff of nightmares, the scary story humans tell their children to make them be good. The crowd was slowly but surely working its way into a frenzy, and downing shots quicker and quicker.

Crawly was pretty sure two demons were having sex on a table in the back. There certainly seemed to be a lot of attention directed that way.

"--Prince Asmodeus, representing lust. The original succubus, everybody!" More cheering. "And now, Number Five, an infamous demon. A legend. A real legend, truly. The Original Tempter, the Father of the Lie, the Serpent of Eden, everybody give it up for the Demon Crawly!"

Cold numb horror settled in her veins.

People were clapping. She felt an elbow dig into her side. "Get up there," Penemue hissed.

She rose. She walked.

Navigating the room itself was fairly easy, given the clumps of red light indicating where tables of demons were. She simply gave them a wide berth. It was bit easier whenever she had to come back down to Hell nowadays, since demons had decided to start interpreting her walking stick as a powerful status symbol rather than a pathetic security blanket, a sad remnant of a life she no longer lived.

Her cane bumped against the edge of the stage. She traced it upward, found the height of the platform, and stepped on carefully.

Beelzebub was a small red blur that thrust an even smaller red blur towards her. The trophy was cool in her hands.

"Crawly is an inspiration to us all. She literally _invented_ tempting humans to sin. Without the hard work, ingenuity, and brilliance of our demon Crawly here, humans would still be perfect. They would have their immortality still, they'd be living in the garden, and all us demons would have no purpose. We'd just be sitting around, doing nothing, waiting for the final war to overthrow Heaven and install self-rule. That'd suck. To Demon Crawly!"

The hordes of Hell cheered. Crawly carefully tucked the trophy under her arm and tapped around for the edge of the stage.

"And Number Four on Heaven's Most Wanted: the Demon Azazel! Azazel was instrumental in starting the actual rebellion up in Heaven. He rallied all of us as angels..."

* * *

**Heaven, 1743 BC**

Phenex's hands fluttered nervously at her sides, smoothing down already perfect robes. She had changed into her white baptismal linens first thing, by request. She didn't want to die looking like a demon.

Not that she really thought she was going to die. She was going to live, of course, and become an angel. Like planned. Like promised.

"Are you sure about this?" Aniel asked. "It's never too late to back out."

"Pretty sure that's the opposite of what you're supposed to say to me."

"No it's not. You shouldn't get baptized unless you mean it. Everyone knows that," they said. "Phenex, this is serious. This is a big deal. It's permanent. Tell me you understand that."

"I am aware of what I am doing."

"Are you? This is a vow to _God._ If She senses the slightest bit of sin left in you, you'll just-- you'll..."

"Melt," she finished. "I know."

"Do you?" Aniel asked, and their voice sounded almost broken. "Phenex, please, if you don't truly think you are ready, we can postpone this. We can wait as long as you need. This-- This is a holy thing. It's supposed to be the public declaration of your personal oath to serve God. This is not meant to be an instrument of harm. And-and if you try to turn it into one, for your own sick purposes, then- then I'll stop you." They folded their arms.

"Aniel," she said. "I am not the one who is uncertain here. Whichever outcome I face, I am prepared for it. You're freaking out, and frankly, I think it has to do entirely with my form. I look like a child, I sound like a child, and you forget that I am not a child." She smiled at her enemy. "2261 years spent thwarting me, and it took until the very last one to fool you with the appearance of innocence."

Aniel's face seemed to break before her eyes.

* * *

**Heaven, 1637 BC**

Chavakiah had enjoyed the past 1200 years.

Ey was one of the powers, and powers were simply warrior angels. They fought, and trained, and banished demons away, and managed outer space-- simply made sure things were in correct operating order and moving as planned. It wouldn't do to have a giant asteroid smash into the Earth, after all, or have the sun get swallowed up into the gravity of a bigger star.

But mostly it was about the warrior thing.

Ey had been able to really focus on training, perfecting eir art, and shaping up eir platoon these past twelve centuries. With eir demonic adversary doing nothing and trying to be good, Chavakiah had focused a lot more on eir career and upward mobility. Ey answer directly to Dominion Kamael, and Chavakiah likes to fancy emself one of his top soldiers, his most trusted lieutenants.

So yeah, ey liked that Marchosias had made this stupid deal, and didn't really care what the outcome of it was.

Marchosias, however, appeared to be a nervous wreck.

"Will you calm down," Chavakiah hissed. "People are staring."

Marchosias was on the brink of hyperventilating. Xe gave no response. Xyr skin had paled unnaturally; if xe was a human, xe'd have passed out by now.

"Chavakiah. Marchosias," Uriel said with false pleasantness, appearing out of nowhere. "Are we having problems?"

"No."

"Yes."

Chavakiah shot eir demon a glare.

"I can't do this," Marchosias blurted out. "I can't, I'm not good enough, I'll die. If I step in that holy water, I'll just die."

Uriel folded her arms. "That's for God to decide."

Xe shook xyr head. "No, no, I know it. My feet are burning on these floors! I have guilt on my conscience! I'm not good enough to touch holy water and live through it. No one is! No demon, anyone. Every one of them has died, you think I don't know that? You think all of Hell doesn't know that?"

"Marchosias," Uriel said gently. "You made a deal. You signed a contract."

Xe laughed hysterically. "I take it back! I'm a lying, no-good demon, and I'm going back on my word. Sorry, you should have known better!"

"You've worked so hard to get here," she continued. "You don't want to throw it all away at the last minute."

"Yes I do. I fully do."

"Marchosias, you don't know what you're saying. Everything will be fine. You've done everything we've asked. You've been good. The baptism will go smoothly; it'll be a good thing for you. Come on, let's get you--"

She moved to grab xem by the arm, and xe jumped back. "No!"

The word echoed through the ballroom. Angels stopped talking, turning to stare at the commotion.

Uriel halted, eyes flicking out around her. "Let's discuss this in private."

"No!" Marchosias boomed, amplifying xyr voice beyond what was natural. "No, I won't get baptized, and you can't make me. It isn't a baptism unless I choose it willingly, and I swear, if you put me in that holy water now, it'll be nothing short of murder."

Millions and millions of eyes watched, fixated.

Uriel smiled through gritted teeth. "Get back down to Hell, then," she said. "You will never have a second chance at this. If you're still in Heaven by the time I count to ten, I swear to God, I will smite you personally."

* * *

**Egypt, 1513 BC**

It had started with turning the Nile to blood.

Well, the Nile and everything that feeds into it, all the waterways and streams within the whole of Egypt. Even the wells and the water preserved in jugs. There was nothing to drink in the whole land. Also all the fish and other wildlife in the water had died and, quite frankly, it stunk to high Heaven.

The people went down to the riverbed to dig, in hopes of finding water. Anyone could turn water into blood, Pharaoh had a whole host of magicians that could turn water into blood, and he wasn't going to be persuaded by a two-bit trick.

Humans begin to die of dehydration within seven days of not drinking.

On the seventh day, God added frogs.

But summoning the pests of the Earth is an even cheaper magic trick.

However, the frogs were very inconvenient, and unsanitary, and everywhere. Pharaoh asked for the frogs to be removed, they all died at once, Pharaoh immediately changed his mind about letting the Israelites leave Egypt.

The exact same thing happened again with the gnats and the gadflies, and Pharaoh completely dismissed the deaths of all Egyptian livestock while Israelite livestock remained perfectly healthy, and then.

Boils afflicted every Egyptian and all remaining animals in the land. And by now Pharaoh was truly ready to negotiate, but God allowed his heart to become obstinate.

This was not simply about getting the Israelites out of Egypt. This was about retribution. This was about sending a message-- to the whole world, one that would go down in history.

No human mage had been able to replicate the acts of plague since the gnats, but by now they had transformed into truly awestriking displays of power.

**For now I am directing all my blows to strike your heart, your servants, and your people, so that you may know there is no one like me in all the earth. For by now I could have thrust my hand out to strike you and your people with a devastating plague, and you would have been wiped out from the earth. But for this very reason I have kept you in existence: to show you my power and have my name declared in all the earth.**

And the next plague came with a warning, just to see which Egyptians would listen. When the great hailstorm hit, those who were prepared were fine. Those who were outside died. 

It wasn't _just_ hail, of course, there was also raucous thunder and lightning that struck fires from the sky. The hail was heavy enough to flatten the crops in the field, to shatter whole trees.

Pharaoh came before Moses and Aaron confessing his sin, declaring God's righteousness, and begging for mercy. He received mercy, and then immediately changed his mind again-- as God had caused to happen.

**Go in to Pharaoh, for I have hardened his heart and the heart of his servants, so that I may display these signs of mine right before him, in order that you may declare to your sons and grandsons how severely I dealt with Egypt and what signs I performed among them; and you will certainly know that I am God.**

And the next plague was locusts, destroying everything that the hail hadn't quite got so there would be no harvest at all that year, and Pharaoh's servants begged and pleaded for him to just send the Israelites away, Egypt has been ruined, and he tried, but as soon as the locusts were gone, God hardened his heart again and made him turn back on his word.

The next plague was intense darkness over the land, so much so that no one could leave their houses during this time. The Israelite houses remained inexplicably well-lit, though, which was really just showing off.

And Pharaoh tried to send them away again, and God hardened his heart again, and Pharaoh told Moses to go the fuck away and if he showed up at the palace again, he'd be killed on sight.

The final plague was the plague of death. It struck down every firstborn of the Egyptians, from Pharaoh's son and heir on the throne to the child of the lowest slave girl, and the firstborn of any remaining animals.

The Israelites were _chased_ out of Egypt.

And God hardened the Egyptians' hearts and made them keep pursuing, suddenly unable to understand why they had allowed their slaves to leave.

God parted the Red Sea to allow the Israelites to pass through, and the Egyptians followed, but She threw the Egyptians into confusion and started removing wheels from their chariots and making things messy and inconvenient.

Once again, the Egyptians decided this was way too much trouble to be worth it, everyone was aware they were fighting God at this point, they all wanted to turn back and go home, and that's when God told Moses to close the Red Sea behind him.

And every single member of Pharaoh's army drowned.

* * *

**Erligang, 1244 BC**

Crawly liked the Bronze Age. Vast improvement from the Neolithic, in their opinion. Glad they were finally done with that.

The Shang Dynasty was doing well, and Erligang was a beautiful, prosperous, massive city. Also, they weren't calling it the Bronze Age for nothing. Everything was made of fucking bronze. The Shang soldiers were extremely well-outfitted, the city was as defended as any other city could ever hope to be, the arts were flourishing, the bronze statues at Erligang were massive and finely done. Everything that wasn't made of bronze was made of jade or silk.

Things were actually really good in China right now. They had had some form of farming for over 5000 years now, and basic surgery for a bit less than 4000. This was especially impressive given that the Earth has only existed for about 2700 years. And, recently, the current King Tang had decided the former king Jie had lost the mandate of Heaven, and so had overthrown his dynasty in battle and set up a new, less tyrannical dynasty. There was still a standing army, but it was smaller now, and people were forced to serve less time in it.

Also, King Tang had set up a number of welfare programs. One of them even involved giving free money to poor people who had sold their children to survive a past famine, so that they could buy their children back. The gold coins were marked, so they could only be spent for that purpose.

So yes, all in all, Crawly was finding the Bronze Age to be a very progressive era. There were so many new cities popping up, but Crawly was definitely in the coolest one, and also living in the lap of luxury.

Things were good.

Then Hastur showed up.

Let it be clear that Crawly did not immediately realize it was Hastur. They were just minding their business, eating a rice cake, when suddenly three wobbly red figures began rising from the depths of their hut's floor, and like, the fuck? So they watched in dulled fascination until the evil things seemed to have popped fully into this plane of existence.

"What do you want?" Crawly asked, around a mouthful of rice cake.

Blurry red figure to the left shoved blurry red figure from the center forward. "This is yours now," came Hastur's voice.

"What?"

"New partner," Ligur said. "Part of that batshit 'happiness' initiative. Make sure the thing doesn't kill itself."

"What now?"

"This dumbass here made a Heavenly redemption deal three years ago, and congrats, Crawly, you've just been assigned their work partner for that dumb buddy-system thing Beelzebub came up with. You have 1197 years to talk her out of it. Turn her back into a functional, evil-doing demon again. Good luck."

The figures to the right and left melted into the floor again, leaving Crawly alone with their... new charge.

They looked a little closer, and...

Amy. Fire demon, former power, adversary is Ieialel, teaches astronomy and liberal arts, gives familiars, makes rulers listen to their people, and has a countdown ticking on her soul. Fuck.

"Hi," they said awkwardly.

"Hi," Amy responded, equally awkward.

"So this is China."

If Amy responded, it wasn't verbal.

"So..." Crawly cleared their throat. "Do you have anything you _want_ to do?"

"No."

"Ah."

Seconds passed.

"Well! I'm going to go write some rude graffiti on the city wall, why don't you come join me? Brand spanking new system of writing, I've been breaking it in. It'll be fun."

* * *

**Perezuzzah, 1071 BC**

Only Levites were allowed to touch the Ark of the Covenant.

But sometimes they had to transport the Ark of the Covenant, and move it from place to place, and that was tricky business. And King David was moving with all of Israel at the moment, their procession was filled with dancing and singing and tambourines and laughter.

Then the cattle nearly dropped the Ark of the Covenant, and Uzzah reached out to catch it and keep it from falling to the ground, despite not being a Levite.

So God killed him.

The walk stopped being a party within seconds. Uzzah's body was on the ground at the foot of the Ark.

David, appalled and furious and terrified, named the place Breach Against Uzzah and sent the Ark away for three months, not wanting to put it within his city.

* * *

**Kithira, 932 BC**

Erligang, unfortunately, no longer existed. Well. It was no longer inhabited. Shit happens.

The Shang Dynasty had gone and gotten replaced by the Zhou Dynasty, Crawly had started to feel acutely old, and no matter how aggressively he talked up Confucianism, Hell was only interested in Legalism, _which sucked ass objectively_ (Crawly had used that exact phrase in five different reports now). The Zhou Dynasty was okay. It was pretty nice, actually. Crawly had just gotten sick of the-- the royal court drama, the feudalism, the ever-looming threat of war. Every other scholar in the fucking Hundred Schools of thought; fuck all of his colleagues, really.

The decision to move had nothing to do with Dagon asking explicitly for updates on the developments of Legalism as he heard about them. It had nothing to do with being told to stop rambling on about Confucianism in his reports, or the fact that he knew his current ones were all being forwarded to Lucifuge for policy ideas.

Nah. Greece was just lovely this time of millennium.

Even while living as outlaws in a cave on a small island off the coast.

Which really wasn't that bad, because the alternative wasn't that good. Things were currently in the Greek Dark Ages. Ironically enough, "ancient" Greece wouldn't be a thing for a few hundred years yet.

Every day, Crawly asked herself why she left China, and every day, Amy reached new depths of exasperation in her response. She was developing a sense of sarcasm now, and Crawly couldn't be prouder.

"Your turn," Amy said, moving a black pebble on the petteia board. Rhene frowned, leaning forward on her elbows.

"You should go there," Cydippe said, pointing.

There was-- Crawly may have-- accidentally-- picked up a few humans, while living in Greece. Entirely without meaning to. There were, possibly, three human women of various ages living in the cave with them.

There had been five in total, over the past few years, but not all at once. Kynna and Pherenike had moved out after a while, having found safe places to live on their own, and Crawly had only helped because she wanted them out of her hair and it gave Amy something constructive to do. The demon needed more practice on actually using her powers, and a sense of having accomplished something went a long way. That's all there was to it.

To be clear, they had not "rescued" Rhene out of Athena's temple. Crawly had been there to incite mischief and mayhem anyway. Striking fear into the hearts of men was _fun._ If Rhene happened to benefit personally from that, well, it was entirely coincidental.

Alemene could really stand to shut up about Crawly's supposed heroism, though, and if Amy thinks Crawly doesn't know they talk, then she's a fool.

The sudden sound of birds squawking, wings flapping, an entire flock taking flight at once, rapidly and with no dawdling.

All movement in the cave stopped, all five women freezing where they sat.

"You think it's heroes again?" Cydippe whispered.

"Possibly," Crawly said, rising. "If it is, they won't be here for long."

"You want me to go with you?" Amy asked, starting to move.

"Only if you want."

Crawly performed a minor miracle as she walked, making her steps and walking stick tread silent on the ground. The dozen-plus snakes that currently made up her hair stood alert, unblinking yellow eyes peering out in all directions. Crawly let her eyes be subsumed by their nature, let her tongue stretch out into its full length and natural shape.

Her cane swept out, clearing a path step by step. The 'heroes' would never hear her coming, nor Amy at her side.

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), she heard them first.

"--No, no, I'm positive. She's on _this_ island. Medusa had sex right in Athena's temple, no respect at all, and now she's been stealing the local women away and killing all the men. And she's old, and ugly as fuck, and that's how she gets you. Just looking at her will make your eyes burn out. If you're lucky!"

That got a chorus of laughs.

"Really," came Aziraphale's voice. "There's no need to be so rude about it."

"Oi, yeah, this is serious business!" called a third, different voice. "Medusa isn't burning men's eyes out, she's turning them to stone. This is a dangerous mission here. We could die. And if any of you halfwits aren't gonna take it seriously, then you can go on home right now."

"That's right," Aziraphale said. Crawly crept closer, careful to stay hidden in the bushes. Amy followed her lead wordlessly. She could 'see' them now. Her snakes tumbled over each other, slithering into position, sensing the group as much as they could. "We are here to bring a kidnapper to justice, and to rescue some likely very traumatized women. This is no laughing matter."

The pack of would-be heroes started moving again, trudging through the forest with no subtlety whatsoever.

"Is she a kidnapper, though?" a new voice asked. There were... seven of them. "'Cause I heard it was just her sisters she was living with. My Nan told me, back when she lived in Sparta-- she had known her, see-- that Medusa was living with her sister, and her sister wasn't too human. Super obvious, too. And now, if she's got more women with her, maybe those are her sisters too. More of 'em."

"A true nightmare," someone said. Laughter, the thunk of skin on flesh.

"Whether she is a kidnapper or not, she has murdered..."

"Four."

"--Four men, and we will bring her to justice within the city. At the very least, she will answer for her crimes," Aziraphale said. The humans with him nodded their approval.

They kept walking. Loudly, and obnoxiously.

Crawly sighed and teleported out in front of Aziraphale, the blue light leading the yellows. Several men screamed, the light shifted aggressively, but no blobs moved.

"...Crawly?"

"Hey," she said. "What are you doing here?"

"W-- I'm here to stop you!"

"Yeah. Can't let you do that."

"You've been killing men!"

"They started it."

"You've kidnapped women!"

"Haven't, actually."

"You had sex in the temple of a god!"

"That did not happen."

Aziraphale sputtered. His light flickered around. Crawly tilted her head. Could be nervousness, could be anger. Maybe embarrassment? So much of social cues were visual. So much of Aziraphale was silent.

"Can you--" He stepped forward, closing in to speak to her personally. "Crawly, you can't terrorize the Greek islands!"

"I'm not!"

"You've committed murder! Multiple times!"

"I've defended humans from those who would take them away by force," she said. "Those women down there all ran away for a reason. Their husbands..." She trailed off, voice dark with anger. She couldn't finish that sentence. Not politely, anyway, and likely not without unleashing involuntary curses. "I won't see them be dragged back to what they just escaped by well-meaning 'heroes' who have no clue what's going on here."

Aziraphale was silent. The moment stretched, taut with tension.

"Did you have anything to do with that minotaur?"

"No. That was another demon."

"Are the women safe?"

"Of course. Kind of the point."

"Are they healthy? Eating enough? Free to leave if they wish?"

"Yes, obviously, I'm not a fool or a tyrant, and I've already kicked two of them out to places far away from here. With money, so they won't end up on the streets. Are you happy now?"

"Are _they_ happy?"

Crawly paused. She gave the question consideration. "They seem to be," she said finally. "As much as can be hoped for. And they're improving."

"Who's this, then?"

Crawly frowned.

"My name's Amy."

Oh. Yep, she was beside her. Who knows how long that had been going on. Thought she left her in the bushes.

"And you're... one of the women, that Crawly has... taken in?"

"Uhh..."

"No," Crawly said. "No, this is Amy, my temporary demonic partner. She helps me commit crimes."

"A demonic partner?" Aziraphale asked. "Oh! Do you mean that you two are-- involved?"

"No! No, absolutely not, Amy's barely-- She's young!"

"I'm not," she said, sounding shocked. "Literally why would you think that? I'm as old as any other demon. You know this."

"You seem young."

"Since when do demons come in pairs, that hardly seems fair. Angels don't work in pairs. Who is your adversary? I'm going to--"

 _"Do not_ contact them, I swear to-- Okay." Crawly took a breath. "This is a temporary arrangement. For 1200 years. We're 300 years into that."

Aziraphale's light moved drastically. "And then what? Some hellish resorting? You both get new partners? If demons are tag-teaming, I _will_ tell Heaven, and there'll be no talking me out of it this time, Crawly."

"No, no. Az--" She stepped forward, moving even closer to Aziraphale. "Think with your brain about it. 1200 years. Amy made a redemption deal."

A beat. "Oh. Oh! And so it's your job to... talk her out of it."

She nodded. "Hell's new mentoring program. Hopefully it'll result in less demons stepping into holy water baths."

"Well. I mean. Presuming one is honest in their efforts, baptism would be--"

"Don't."

"...So the girls are safe?"

Crawly nodded.

"Will you stop killing men?"

"I can't promise that."

"I believe you could, actually. I believe that's a very low standard to meet and I'm being... _far_ too lenient with you."

"We could..." Amy started. "We could put a ward over the cave. A really good one. Make it so that humans are unable to find it."

"I _want_ humans to be able to find it," Crawly said. "If they need it."

"Wards can have conditions," Aziraphale said.

Crawly hesitated. "Fine," she spat. "I'll stop killing the mortals."

"Excellent," Aziraphale said, and suddenly, his voice was venom. Crawly frowned. "If that's all, I believe I have no more business here. I'd say it's been a pleasure seeing you, but frankly, it hasn't."

His blob moved back over to join the yellow human blobs. "This island is empty," he said loudly. "We will never find Medusa. Let's give up."

* * *

**Kithira, 387 BC**

They were currently trying to convince people that Amy was Crawly's cousin. The siblings thing had not gone over well been believed by almost anyone, in China or Greece. Unfortunate.

"In fairness, I don't look like you," Amy said.

"So? You don't look human. Your skin is scarlet. You literally have hair of flame and eyes of coal. They can believe you look human but not that we look alike? What kind of miracle are you using?"

"You know what I look like?" Amy asked, sounding shocked.

"What? 'Course I do. What kinda question is that?"

"I know you're blind."

"Whaaaa--"

"It's okay. I won't tell anyone."

Crawly fumed in silent confusion.

"Well alright," he said. "See to it you don't. Last thing I need is Hastur _plotting."_

"But how do you know what I look like?"

"Well, I remember you."

"Wh-- Really?"

"'Course. You were that scared little fire demon that helped me find my way around. First proper demon I met, actually."

Amy was silent for a minute.

"You healed me. Do you remember?"

He nodded. "A broken leg. And burns, too, I didn't think I'd be able to get them at first. Thought they were part of your nature."

"Was I the only one?"

"No, there were a few others, after. I think it had to do with still being just a little bit too holy when you first hit the hellfire."

"Hmm," she said. "That's dumb. If that were true, then a lot more demons would have been burnt. There were a lot more a lot holier than me. Like you, for example."

He huffed. "Amy, I _chose_ to Fall. Sauntered down into Hell of my own volition. I wasn't even close to holy by the time I actually Fell, hadn't been for a long time."

"Oh."

They kept walking. Waves crashed quietly on the shoreline, as if even the ocean was feeling sluggish this early in the morning. The coast was rocky, but not so rocky it would be more trouble than it was worth for Crawly to try navigating it.

The walking hurt, like always, but they were going to keep it short, and Crawly couldn't spend entire months and years cooped up in the cave without leaving, he just couldn't. The fresh sea air was a balm, the benefits far outweighed the costs. Crawly viciously ignored the pain, reminding himself he could rest whenever he needed, he just didn't need to, right now.

"I was going as a man then," Amy said, a bit out of place.

"Oh yeah," Crawly drawled. "You were, weren't you? I almost forgot, you've been a woman for what, the past, what, eight hundr--"

"Three thousand six hundred and eleven years."

"Oh! Oh, so you don't... change it, then, that often?"

"Not ever," she said. "To be honest, I don't think I understood gender for those first six years? Once I realized what it all was, I knew I was a woman, and that's how I've been living ever since. I've never changed it, and I never will."

"Huh," he said. "I can't imagine that. I start to feel stuck, after too long. Like it doesn't fit anymore."

"Yeah, I've met some people like that," she said. "And I know lots of demons change their name when they change their gender. Usually-- usually if it was like a one-time thing, like me."

"I've been thinking about that," he said. "I wouldn't constantly want to be flipping back and forth-- I never stay the same for more than three decades at most-- but I kind of hate 'Crawly'."

"Really?" Amy asked. "What's wrong with it?"

"Well, it's very... It's demonic, isn't it? I mean, moreso than a normal demon name. _Crawly._ I may as well go around introducing myself as the Serpent of Eden. It almost _couldn't_ get more obvious, ya know?"

"And you don't like that?" she asked. "That's your claim to fame. It's why you're on Heaven's Most Wanted list."

"Yeah, it's also why humans have the ability to die. I'd rather not be reminded."

"That's not your fault," Amy said. "That was God's punishment. That's on Her. No one forced Her to curse the humans with mortality."

"Yeah, and no one forced me to tempt them either. My own bright idea," he said flatly. "Anyway. I'm set on it now. I want to change my name."

"Okay," Amy said. "To what?"

Crawly frowned.

They kept walking.

"You're gonna make it up, right? What do you think sounds cool?"

He sighed, with deep, exaggerated frustration. "Crawly, but less 'hello-I'm-the-Serpent-of-Eden'-y. I want it to be the same."

"What?"

"I want it to be the same but also different. You know?"

"I really don't."

"I want my name to be Crawly without it being the actual word crawly, and I don't wanna change it but also I do."

"So like..." Amy hesitated. "You only wanna change it a little bit? Like... one letter, so it sounds different?"

"Yes!" he shouted. "Yes, fucking Satan, you're a genius!"

Amy laughed. "Alright, alright. So then... Crowley?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I'm Crowley now."


	4. 4.3 Centuries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historically, if the angel Gabriel appears before you, you will be pregnant by the time he leaves lmao
> 
> I realize other people believe in the trinity, but that's not the form of Christianity I grew up on, and so it doesn't apply here. It doesn't make sense to me, and I don't care about the mainstream opinion, its a made-up heresy. If you've never heard of nontrinitarian Christianity, well, now you will. Also this makes Jesus and Adam direct parallels of each other, the story's a lot more interesting this way, I think
> 
> Also aaaahh I wasn't going to include those last two bits with Jesus's ministry, I literally wrote most of this chapter without it, but then I went back and added it in because really Jesus is just very interesting to write and I have strong opinions about modern Christianity and how far it has strayed, and etc

**Kithira, 47 BC**

Crowley paced angrily across a spot of about ten feet of ground that he had marked out for angry pacing. Amy hovered nervously just inside the mouth of the cave.

This had been going on for thirteen hours now. It was roughly midmorning at this point, the sun high but the Earth not fully warmed by it yet. Crowley had decided his anxiety had reached uncontainable levels a few hours after dark last night, knowing full well what the next day would bring.

Yes Crowley was in unimaginable pain and definitely going to collapse the second he stopped moving. Yes he was already using a miracle to force his legs to move. No he would not consider sitting down.

He had tripped and collapsed briefly about nine hours ago, stayed on the ground for half an hour, and then lifted himself back up with magic while ignoring all of Amy's protests.

The scent of ozone suddenly swept through the air. Electricity crackled, and thunder boomed ear-shatteringly loud.

Two blue figures stood before them.

"We have come to collect the Demon Amy," said a strange voice.

"Yeah, well you'll have to go through me firssst," Crowley snarled.

"Crowley--"

"No, shush," he said. "Nobody iss taking Amy up to Heaven. She'sss sstaying down here, on Earth or lower, sspreading evil and _living._ Got it?"

"Crowley," and _fuck,_ that was Aziraphale's voice, soft and admonishing and pitying. "She made a deal. Her time is up."

"She can ressscind it!" he shouted. "Other demonss have broken their word. It's not unprecssedented. You're allowed to opt out."

"No you are not," said the stranger-- Amy's adversary, Ieialel, their name was. "If you back out now, you will not be given a second chance at redemption. There are no retrials, no do-overs. This is your last and only opportunity to come back to Heaven."

"I'll--" Amy sucked in a breath. "Okay. I'm... Let's go."

"No," Crowley said. "No, I demand to come with you all. I don't trusst you angelss. You'd dip her in holy water even if she ssaid no, if you thought you could get away with it."

"That's not true," Aziraphale said, voice no longer pitying at all now.

"Let me come up to Heaven asss a legal advocate."

"I--" Amy started. "I'd like Crowley to come. He's been my friend and mentor for the past twelve centuries. I want him there for my baptism. How-However it goes."

"Amy..."

"No," Ieialel said. "I'm not bringing a strange demon up into Heaven."

"Oh, well it can't hurt to have him there as a bystander, can it?" Aziraphale asked.

"Absolutely not. It's out of the question."

A blue figure moved aggressively towards Amy until blue light mingled with red. And with a snap, all three figures were gone.

* * *

Aziraphale pursed his lips in disapproval. "Was that truly necessary?"

"We were wasting time," Ieialel said. "There are better things to do than argue an unassailable point with a demon."

Aziraphale pursed his lips, again, for emphasis. He turned to Amy. "I really am sorry, my dear. If it's any consolation, I'm sure you'll be able to see each other again immediately after the ceremony."

She tilted her head. "Will I?"

 _"No,"_ Ieialel said firmly, shooting a glare towards Aziraphale. "And once you're made new, you won't want to in the first place. It's a moot point. Now, come on. We have better people to talk to."

* * *

An hour and a half later, Amy was in the dressing room in the back, being briefed by the majority of the Committee for Demonic Purification, and Aziraphale was hovering outside the door nervously.

A tap on the shoulder made him nearly jump out of his corporation. He whirled around, and there was Gabriel, imposing and wearing a smile that was probably meant to seem friendly. It didn't.

"Aziraphale!" he said. "So great to see you up in Heaven again. I feel like it's been ages."

"Oh-oh just-- just over 2000 years, actually."

"Ages! Way too long! You're practically disconnected from the Host!" He laughed. "I get that you're a principality, you're meant to be on Earth, but c'mon, you're still an angel, aren't you?"

"Y-yes, of course."

"So. Tell me. What have you been getting up to lately? What has been so thrilling down on Earth that you haven't visited Heaven in twenty centuries?"

"Well. I've been doing... some quite important work as a scribe, you see. Ensuring there are copies of the holy scriptures, so that they may be compiled into a bible when the time is right."

"Oh," Gabriel said, the smile stiff on his face. "Well, that's good. Excellent. Glad one of Uriel's departments finally found a way to turn writing into something not-Satanic. That'll show those demons."

"Yes," Aziraphale nodded. "Yes, I've been quite hard at work at thwarting my adversary as well. I've just recently returned from performing some acts of heroism in Greece. There's quite a bit of chaos there, you see, so I've been vanquishing various unholy monsters and sending them back from whence they came. Enforcing peace and order, you see."

Aziraphale had not, in fact, vanquished anything. But the minotaur was... gone, and wouldn't be bothering anyone, and Crowley had promised to stop committing murder, and that was really the point here, wasn't it? 'Vanquished' had somewhat of a loose definition, or so Aziraphale told himself.

"Ah," Gabriel said. "Very important work, then?"

"Oh yes, most definitely. Don't know how they would get on without me."

"Well then." He clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder hard enough to jar him to the side a bit. "I'll definitely need to be kept appraised of it then. And it'll do you good to be in Heaven more often, keep associating with the rest of the Host. It's a sin not to, right?" He laughed. "Alright, so we agree then? Once a century reports, starting now, consider it a standing appointment."

His voice had lost its jovial air by the end of the statement, and he slapped Aziraphale's shoulder again as he walked off.

Something inside his chest deflated, in a slow loosing of a sense of disappointment and fading anxiety.

Great. Great! Now he had to come up to Heaven every hundred years, and talk to Gabriel, and report something that sounded significant and worthwhile when the reality of being a principality is a myriad of tiny miracles to improve individuals' lives. Fuck.

And now he felt guilty, for saying the word 'fuck' within his mind. Angels shouldn't curse. It reflected poorly on the Host; it was uncouth. And he should be happy about this! Association with his brothers and sisters in the Lord was a good thing. It was to be treasured, cultivated. Not dreaded or avoided.

Gabriel was right. Neglecting the meeting together for worship was, in fact, a sin. Listed in the very Bible Aziraphale was compiling and everything.

He felt a pulse of self-loathing and shame course through him, and he relished the feeling. The least he deserved, really.

Amy stepped out of the back room then, prodded forward by Ieialel and followed by an impressive entourage of high-ranking angels. The demon was a pale faded rose color, the coal of her eyes barely burning and gathering ash, the flames atop her head much smaller than they were the last time Aziraphale had seen her.

The idea of dunking a fire demon underwater seemed dangerous, somehow, even without the context of what had happened to the others, what holy water did to them.

She whispered something to herself, and it got lost in the bustle of moving, talking angels.

"What was that, my dear?" he asked, and the demon flinched, turning to him in terror.

"I can't do this," she said, petrified. "I can't..." She trailed off, swallowing.

Raguel had a hand wrapped around her arm, pulling her along easily with his much larger form, not seeming to have heard her. Uriel was saying something, it had most people's attention.

Amy's flames were almost entirely gone out.

Aziraphale attempted to butt into the crowd, shoving through and muttering excuses, saying 'stop' repeatedly, but so much else was going on, and all of it was more important than him fussing.

"Stop!" he shouted, and at least two angels did.

"She said no!" he said. Puriel had stopped, and listened, and caught Raguel's attention, and then silence spread out, with Aziraphale at the epicenter.

"She said no," he said. "She does not want to be baptized."

Raguel dropped Amy's arm instantly, and Uriel closed her eyes in a moment of frustration.

* * *

Crowley was a frothing mess of anxiety. He had passed through one panic attack about an hour ago, and while technically fine right now, he could definitely see his way to a second one.

Panic was blowing up in his chest, breaths short and fast. His mind was white noise of disconnected half-thoughts that flew by too fast to be fully expressed. He couldn't sit still if his life depended on it, pacing on his patch of ground at hyperspeed, worrying at his lower lip with both teeth and fingernails. He needed-- something...

It smelled like lightning.

He whipped around, and there, two blue figures and one red. He swore, and tripped an embarrassing amount on his way over there.

"Amy," he said, wrapping her in a hug. Cold arms closed around him, lukewarm hellfire batting around his face.

"I will remember this," Ieialel said. "You cannot play Heaven as fools and get away with it. Lying demons must be punished, and your treachery will not be forgotten. Your word is useless, and everyone knows that now."

Crowley looked up, and there was only one blue figure. He frowned.

"I..." Aziraphale said. "May we next meet under better circumstances."

And then he was gone too.

* * *

**Nazareth, 10 BC**

Crowley had been personally recalled by the Hastur & Ligur Squad of Work and Annoyances to go to fucking Nazareth based on an extremely dubious rumor that the year hitting zero meant it was time for God to end the world, via the Christ, her half-human son.

And Crowley had so many opinions about that! First of all, what a fucking hypocrite. Angels Fall for marrying humans and having children with them, but if God Herself wants to what, fuck, have sex with a human man? Dump a half-god baby on the human man and leave? Take a mortal form and give birth Herself so She can raise the bastard? Is She going to marry someone? Who? What the fuck?

And it can be anyone from Abraham's line, which was _two whole god-blessed countries_ at this point, for Satan's sake.

So Crowley has built himself a hut, just to have somewhere to sleep in, or go when the rest of the town is asleep, and he has taken to wandering through the streets of the city, looking around at all the yellow-y human souls and asking about people's children. If there are any new and strange women in town. Who's pregnant. What's the gossip.

This has gotten a variety of reactions, most of them negative.

And Amy had moved to northern Europe and was trying to relearn independence and 'find herself' and all that. Which. Good for her. Kinda sucked for Crowley though, because now he had to do real work and couldn't just take Amy to a bar and get rip-roaring drunk and call _that_ work.

Also causing mischief and mayhem isn't nearly as much fun alone.

Also! Given that nobody knows how old the Messiah is right now or what _exactly_ is going to happen in the year 0, Crowley is quite possibly just wasting his time here, searching for someone he knows absolutely nothing about, and it's highly likely he's going to continue wasting his time for ten more years, because fucking Hastur hates him personally and wants him to suffer.

And Ligur had good intel that the Christ was going to be a Nazarene. Not clear where he got that, but obviously him and Hastur had decided it was as good as gospel.

So. Wandering Nazareth. Alone. On a work assignment.

Bored.

* * *

**Jerusalem, 3 BC**

"Do not be afraid!" Gabriel boomed.

Priest Zechariah looked like he was about to piss himself, right there beside the incense altar.

"Your appeals to God have been favorably heard, and you shall now receive a son! His name will be John, it's going to be great, everyone's going to be so happy about it. But he isn't allowed to drink any alcohol, ever, in his life, and also he's going to be filled with holy spirit even before he's born, and he shall turn everyone back onto the path of righteousness, to make the people ready."

Zechariah hesitated. "How can I be sure of this? I'm old, and so is my wife."

Gabriel laughed. "I am the Archangel Gabriel! I stand before God, and I have been sent to declare this good news to you. But fuck you for doubting that! So you need some proof buddy? How about this-- you won't be able to talk until the kid's born. That good enough for you?"

* * *

**Nazareth, 2 BC**

"Greetings, esteemed human! God is with you!"

Mary looked confused and petrified. Also like she was considering screaming for help.

"Do not be afraid!" Gabriel said. It had worked well enough last time. "Look, this is great! You're going to be pregnant!"

Mary started scrambling backwards.

"With the Son of God!" he shouted. "Stop running away, this is important! Hey," he said. "Okay. You're going to become pregnant with the Christ, the Promised Messiah, the Word of God and Son of the Most High, Prince of Peace and the Last Adam."

She shook her head. "That's not possible. I'm a virgin."

Gabriel is going to fucking snap one of these days.

"With God all things are possible," he said tightly. "Holy spirit will come upon you and... overshadow you. That is why the child will be holy. And look! It happened to your relative Elizabeth, right? And she was old. So clearly, nothing is impossible for God, as I've said."

Mary paused. She drew in a deep breath. "The Son of God?"

Gabriel nodded.

"Then let it happen according to your words."

* * *

**Jerusalem, 12 AD**

Aziraphale, quite frankly, didn't think Heaven was taking this whole business with the Christ seriously enough.

When the child had first been born, entire fleets of angels had descended on the nearby Earth to declare to the humans that the Word was made flesh and sing some praises. After they were done with that, they packed up and left. Heaven returned to work and business as usual, and now Hell and all the dangerous humans knew the Christ was present-- and worse, they could probably figure out where.

Aziraphale has warded off five demons personally in the past twelve years. He hates to even think it, but he really can't imagine Hell being so casual about things, were the situation reversed and the Antichrist walking the Earth at present. Surely, if that were the case, the child would have practically an army of demons guarding and protecting and watching him at all times, ensuring that everything went according to plan. Not one lone, low-ranking creature, who is actually unarmed, thank you very much.

It seems, almost, like Heaven is... overconfident.

And now.

Now, Mary and Joseph have... lost the Son of God.

You see, every year, they make the trip into Jerusalem to celebrate Passover, and it was a very big deal and very holy and good of them. But this year, they just so happened to forget their kid. Left him behind completely.

And then they didn't notice for a whole day.

 _Eventually,_ the young couple noticed they were missing one of their-- alright-- frankly many children, Jesus had four half-brothers and a number of half-sisters, all younger than him, of course. And anyway, then Mary and Joseph asked around their caravan to see if anyone knew where Jesus was, and, discovering that they didn't, promptly set out to return to Jerusalem.

Very responsible of them. Aziraphale had only had to implant a few suggestions in their minds. He had really thought they would notice the missing kid earlier.

That was three days ago.

In total, Jesus had been missing for five days. Then they finally found him, sitting in the temple, talking with the rabbis and asking just so many questions. Five days worth of questions. Why did no one think to send the kid home at any point, Aziraphale had to wonder. Why had no one asked him where his parents were, or say, sent him home for dinner.

Aziraphale decided he was going to have a stern talking-to with all of these rabbis. As amazing as the wonderkid may be, he was still a child, and he still needed to answer to his human parents.

"Jesus the son of Joseph!" Mary called out, striding across the temple with Joseph at her heels.

On any other child, Aziraphale would have called Jesus's expression guilty. It disappeared quickly, replaced with the steely resolve and bravado of a kid who's pretty sure he can talk his way out of this.

"Child, why did you treat us this way? Your father and I have been looking frantically for you! We've scoured the whole city! I've been worried sick! We thought the worst had happened! Why would you think this was acceptable? Did you _want_ us to be anxious?"

"Why didn't you check here first?" Jesus asked calmly. "Where else would I be, other than the house of my Mother?"

The Christ got grounded.

* * *

**Bethany, 29 AD**

John baptized Jesus in the River Jordan and the sky opened up in a great rip of light. God Herself descended in the form of a dove.

**You are my son, the beloved, and I have approved you.**

And every celestial and infernal creature in existence felt those words in their very soul.

A sense of doom crept up in Aziraphale's heart.

The Christ had come into his power, and everyone knew it.

* * *

**Judean Wilderness, 29 AD**

Jesus decided to do some soul-searching. After God, ya know, kinda told him to by leading him into the desert while still in the form of a dove and then disappearing. Aziraphale had stayed at Bethany, assuming that they were about to have a very private conversation.

For the symbolism of it all, Jesus had fasted for forty days and forty nights. At which point Crowley had decided enough was enough.

Obviously, she had zeroed in on Bethany as soon as the call went out, and she had kept her distance while God was still existing physically, but She was clearly gone and Her son really needed to cut the noble suffering act before he killed himself.

"You can perform miracles, you know," she called out, walking closer to him. His soul was yellow. _Yellow._ Brilliant move, really. It's accurate enough that it's not a disguise, technically, but it does make so that you can't pick the Christ out from a crowd of ordinary humans. Or at least, Crowley can't.

That's a very specific protection, actually, and she's definitely going to fall down a rabbit hole of questions wondering about it later. But not right now.

"It's been forty days. Just turn those rocks into bread. You're about to keel over," she said. "Honestly, kids these days."

"I'm not a kid," Jesus said. "And I'm fasting. For it is written: Man must live, not on bread alone, but on every word that comes from God's mouth."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, and if you tripped, angels would descend and lift you up on their hands to prevent you stubbing your toe."

"But I won't trip," he said. "For it is written: You must not put the Lord your God to the test."

"Oh my G-- Shut up," she said. "So. I'm here to tempt you."

He blinked. "You aren't supposed to do that." He frowned and drew himself up. "But it doesn't matter, because I can't be tempted."

"Well, that's up to you, it's not necessarily a fact," she said. "And I'm still gonna try and tempt you anyway. Fall down and perform an act of worship to the Devil."

"No."

"Alright," she said. "I wanna show you something."

They were in Paris, at the top of the Eiffel Tower, on the day of its unveiling in 1887. It was beautiful, and cold, and Paris was sparkling.

They were in the NASA control room, standing at the back, watching humans take their first ever steps on the moon and leave footprints in their wake.

They were in a boat passing through Niagara Falls, full of humans, all of them loud and giddy and excited.

They were in a hospital room in 1954, watching a set of identical twins wake up from the first ever organ transplant. They got to talking about families, Jesus spoke fondly about all his younger siblings and their antics, about his human mother he loved so much, about his cousin John the Baptist who was really more of a brother. He smiled a lot.

They were standing on the glass walkout platform over the Grand Canyon, and Crowley pointed out one of the entrances to Hell and told Jesus about her first time going there. She told him about the Fall.

They were in Cedar Point at its height, and they stayed there quite a while. Turns out Jesus really _couldn't_ be tempted into eating. Well. It might have worked if Crowley actually thought food was worth it, herself.

They were in the greenhouse on the first Martian colony, and Crowley taught Jesus all about the different types of plants, and it veered into a discussion of the third day of Creation and that climate crisis the humans had once had, will one day have. They both had very strong opinions about it. Also the robotic bees in there. By the time they left the greenhouse, Crowley had this urge like she needed to physically hug the Earth.

They were in Mexico, eating fried ice cream on a pier, looking out at the clearest, bluest water they had ever seen. Well. Crowley was eating. Fried foods were literally a hellish invention; she hadn't even tried on this point.

"You're going to die," she said.

"I know." Jesus nodded.

"You don't need to. Mortality is a choice, for you."

"I need to in a different sense."

"Sucks, though, doesn't it?" she asked, digging into the corn flakes aggressively. "Hardly seems fair. Adam commits one sin, and because of that, you have to die?"

"That's how it works for everyone," he said. "That's why I have to stop it. Through one man sin entered into the world, and death through sin, and so one man will take it out of the world. One perfect life squandered, one perfect life given freely, to pay off the debt."

"Your ransom sacrifice," Crowley drawled. Jesus nodded.

"Their sins will be forgiven. Free tickets into Paradise, for all who choose it."

"Not all," Crowley gestured with her spoon. "It won't even apply to any of the humans who came before you."

"There's nothing I can do about that. I can't turn back time."

"Are you sure? Have you tried?"

"I can't _morally_ turn back time, in clean conscience."

"I think this is pretty fucked up of God, actually," Crowley said. "I don't see how this is a good thing at all. I don't see how this is fair to you."

Jesus shrugged. "It doesn't have to be."

"No, really. She made the system, She could easily change the rules. She's _God._ She engineered a game and came up with a set of rules that require Her to produce a son just to send him to his death. No one forced Her to do that. The rules could have been different from the start, if She willed it. She actively chose to do this to you."

"I'm doing this to myself," Jesus said firmly.

"Are you?" Crowley asked, leaning forward. "You're making a very noble choice here, and I get that, it's kinda the point. But are you only living this way because the future of humanity is at stake, or would you do all this regardless, out of your own moral compulsion?"

"Pascal's wager."

"...Essentially, yes. Pascal's wager. Or the flip side to it, anyway."

"You're forgetting something," he said. "I just came into my power."

"I'm aware of that."

"Are you? Because I didn't know I was the supposed 'Son of God' until my baptism. I thought I was a normal human, just like every other human, with the same options and opportunities available, and I lived thirty years of my life under that assumption. I'm the village carpenter, Crowley. I chose to cultivate this close a relationship with God a long time ago, and I chose to follow Her commands and guidance long before I had any idea what was at stake. This is who I am, on my own. This is who I've chosen to be," he said. "And I think that's why I had to get baptized first, before She would claim me. I had to choose God before God would choose me."

"Alright," she said. "So you're a good man. You'll live a long life of devotion. Perfect obedience, and never one single sin. You'll preach as far as you can wander, train up apostles to take up your work when you're gone, you'll never marry and decades later, you'll die, having given a life completely to God and done nothing for your own sake."

"Yeah," Jesus said. "Yeah, exactly."

"And you're okay with that? A truly selfless life of servitude? You don't want anything more?"

"No," he said. "This is it. My life will be one of faith, and faith alone. I'm giving it to the humans. But, uh-- it won't be decades. I'm going to have to work... a bit faster than that."

"You know how you're going to die."

He nodded. "I've got three years left."

Crowley closed her eyes briefly. "Well then," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "We'd best get going. You've got a lot more world to see. If you're going to give your life for these humans, you should see the best of what they'll do."

* * *

**Jerusalem, 30 AD**

Passover was drawing near, and so Jesus had returned to Jerusalem and to the temple of his youth.

And now he was worrying people.

It had been five very long, increasingly worrying hours since he first arrived. Most other temple-goers were giving him a wide berth, but Aziraphale approached hesitantly and sat down next to him.

"Hello, my boy. Uhm. What is it you've got there?" he asked.

"Whip," Jesus said tersely, focusing on his braiding. The whip was, indeed, in its final stages. He had started from scratch. It was truly impressive what just five hours of extremely determined and unceasing work could accomplish.

Sure, Jesus could have just used a miracle to produce a whip (he had recently performed his very first one at a wedding in Cana-- turning water into wine), but that wouldn't have been nearly as emotionally satisfying, nor would it have made quite as fine a point about the depths of his anger at this.

"I see. What's it for?"

"They brought capitalism into my Mother's temple, Aziraphale. They need to be punished."

Aziraphale's eyebrows shot up. Jesus waved a hand before he could say anything.

"I know who you are; don't bother pretending. You don't have to pretend not to know who I am either."

"Ah," he said. "Well, that makes this simple. Jesus, dear, I'm not sure it's your job to punish the humans."

"Don't care. Gonna do it anyway." He looped strands of leather over one another. "This is a house of worship. It is not a _giftshop._ It is not a place to sell gimmicky God-themed merchandise. It is not a place to do business. It is not a place to discuss money, or loans, or to do any sort of trading. I need to make that clear. _Perfectly_ clear."

"What are you going to do, Jesus?" Aziraphale asked tiredly.

"I'm going to finish this whip," he said, still braiding. "I'm going to start screaming."

Aziraphale nodded for him to continue.

"I'm going to wave it around and run through the place. I'm going to flip their tables over and dump out the money boxes. I will set loose all the livestock and throw the goods into the street. I will chase out the merchants with my whip, and there will be no more trading in my Mother's house," he said. "This is not a place for business."

Aziraphale nodded. "Well," he said. "If you get arrested, I'll be there to bail you out."

Jesus looked up at him and grinned.

* * *

**Capernaum, 31 AD**

There had been problems lately, with people following the letter of the law and not the spirit of it. And Jesus was certainly addressing a lot of things, in his sermon on the mount. And there had also been this tendency to blame one's sins on the actions of others, namely women and demons, despite how perfectly clear Jesus had been about God not allowing anyone to be tempted beyond what they could bear. Self-control was literally always an option, in regards to absolutely everything.

This seemed to be a radical idea.

Men were quite insistent that their sins were the result of women dressing immodestly.

And if it wasn't possible to blame a woman for their sins, it was always possible to blame a demon, who surely must have tempted them. But Jesus had already done the rant on the nature of temptation and how self-control is a virtue for a reason, and how free will means you are responsible for your own actions, and this wasn't about that. Or at least, it took a more specific form.

"You have heard it was said, 'You must not commit adultery.' However I say to you, everyone who keeps on looking at a woman so as to have a passion for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If now your right eye is making you stumble, tear it out and throw it away from you. For it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to be pitched into Gehenna. Also, if your right _hand_ is making you stumble, cut it off and throw it away from you. For it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to land in Gehenna.

"There are those that have more difficulty with certain sins than others, and you must look within yourselves and, if there is a stumbling block in your life, excise it from yourself, no matter how essential you assume it to be. There are many 'needs' you could truly live without, when your soul is on the line."

* * *

**Perea, 32 AD**

A ruler of the nations came to Jesus and said to him, "Good Teacher, what must I do to gain everlasting life?"

"First of all," Jesus said. "I am not good. Only God is good. Second of all, you know the commandments. Do not commit adultery, do not murder, do not steal, do not bear false witness, honor your father and your mother, and love your neighbor as yourself."

"I have been doing all that since childhood."

Jesus looked at him, seeming to know far too much and suddenly sympathetic. "And yet you are lacking," he said. "What you _truly_ need to do is sell all of your belongings and distribute the proceeds among the poor. It will transform you, and then you can come walk with me and be my follower."

"I see," the ruler said, and he walked away, and he grieved.

Jesus shook his head and turned back to his apostles. "Truly I say to you, it is easier for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God."

"But that's impossible," one of the disciples said.

"Yes," he agreed. "It is."

They never saw the rich man again.

* * *

**Golgotha, 33 AD**

The hammering was loud.

Not enough to drown out the sound of Jesus praying, though, for God to have mercy on his executioners.

"Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?" Crowley asked, rage barely suppressed for the moment and simmering just beneath her skin.

In that moment, she really thought she hated Aziraphale, and everything he represented.

"Smirk? Me?" he asked, as if it were preposterous.

"Well, your lot put him on there."

"I'm not consulted on policy decisions, Crawly."

"Oh, I've changed it," she said, because the alternative was screaming and picking a fight. _Policy decisions._ As if Jesus wasn't--

"Changed what?"

"My name. Crawly just wasn't really doing it for me. It's a bit too... squirming-at-your-feet-ish."

"Well, you were a snake," Aziraphale said. "So what is it now? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?"

"Crowley," she said, before he could chime in with even worse proposals. Those must be the only other demon names he knew.

God, she hoped that was the case. There were some worrying implications in there.

"Hmm," Aziraphale said. "Did you, uh-- ever meet him?"

"Yes. Seemed a very bright young man," she said. She had met him a handful of times, had kept a weather eye over him. The temptation in the desert, the wedding at Cana, a few sporadic sermons here and there, the night news of John's beheading in prison had reached him and he had cried for hours, as was holy and proper, but refused to speak for fear of what he might say. Crowley had sat with him, and rubbed circles on his back, and she hadn't said anything either.

One sin, and this all meant nothing.

Crowley had stayed away as his time started running out and Jesus began more frequently prophesying his own death, complete with cryptic details. She knew he had been betrayed by one his chosen apostles (with a kiss, of all things), that he spent the night before his arrest in the gardens of Gethsemane, praying, and God had sent an angel to comfort him.

She wondered, dimly, if that angel had been Aziraphale, definitely the best suited for the task, or someone higher ranking, purely on the virtue of the importance of the assignment.

"I showed him all the kingdoms of the world," she said.

"Why?"

"He's a carpenter from Galilee; his travel opportunities are limited."

A nail was driven through his wrist.

"That has got to hurt," she said softly. "What was it he said that got everyone so upset?"

"Be kind to each other."

"Oh, yeah. That'll do it."

It wasn't the first time Crowley had seen that happen. And she knew, with sinking dread, it wouldn't be the last.

* * *

About twelve hours later, it was over. Finally.

Not for the apostles, not for the countless disciples, not even for Jesus himself, but Crowley, personally, had reached the limit of her ability to deal with this.

Jesus had been so young, and she felt so, so old.

Aziraphale took her by the hand wordlessly and booked them a room at an inn in town. He paid with the appropriate shekels, murmured his thanks, and led Crowley up to their bed. She sank down slowly, sitting on the edge of it. Her bones ached. Her mind was filled with white noise.

Blue light, a bit to the left, waving around. In front of her now. She wasn't really processing it.

Hands gripped her shoulders, and she jerked back.

"Crowley! Oh, Crowley, dear, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Are you with me now?"

She was breathing again, in that bad way that happened when she felt too much.

"It's alright, dear. Is it okay if I touch you?"

She drew a shuddering breath and nodded. A weight settled in next to her, a hand stroked large circles on her back. She leaned in and curled her taller form around Aziraphale's very soft one, reaching blindly to find worn fabric over warm, almost hot, flesh. She tucked her head into his neck and cried quietly, all tears and shuddering breaths, and Aziraphale held her and ran a hand over her hair.

Time passed, and Crowley quieted even further, and her eyes had been shut for hours now.

She pulled back gently, and Aziraphale's hands dropped.

"What I said," she said. "Earlier. In the barn, after Sodom and Gomorrah. I'm sorry. I didn't-- I didn't mean to disrespect what... Raphael's actions meant to you."

"Crawly--"

"No, no, I need to say this," she said. "I was... rude, and disrespectful. Just-- just because it didn't mean something to me doesn't mean it didn't have a great deal of meaning for you, and I should have been more considerate of that than I was. I'm sorry. I didn't-- I didn't mean to make it seem little."

"Crawly, my dear--"

_"Crowley."_

"Crowley," he said, softly. "You don't have to apologize to me."

"Yes I do," she snapped, getting mad again.

"Alright," he said. "Alright, well not right this second, okay? You're distressed. Let's leave serious discussions until you're more settled, shall we?"

"I'm not distressed."

"Alright," Aziraphale said. "Well, do you want to take a nap?"

"No," she said, even though she did, she was so exhausted she felt like she might collapse. Or sleep for a year, maybe. She had done that, a few times. After they had buried Dorcas and she left the Ararat Mountains. After Isaac's false sacrifice, when she left everything and moved to China. "No, let's go to dinner. We'll sleep after."

Light moved strangely. "As you wish."

* * *

The meal had gone on for over forty-five minutes at this point, with the first half hour almost entirely spent in silence, before muted, safe conversation had started flowing.

"Thank you," Crowley said. "For... for booking the room. Taking me out to dinner. I needed that. Thank you."

"My dear, it was the least I could do," Aziraphale said, looking at her fondly. He knew how hard that was for her, to admit to needing something, especially an emotional something. "Consider it a repayment. For how you comforted and took care of me after Sodom."

"That is not what happened," she said gravely.

"Oh, but I--"

"Don't let people hear you saying that."

"Oh. Oh, right." His lips quirked into a frown. "Well. From a business standpoint. It is my duty to care for all that was Created."

"You know it isn't," Crowley said, so achingly fond and sad it almost hurt to witness.

"Excuse me," Aziraphale said. "But I assure you that it damn well is."

"There are exceptions. Hate that which God hates, abhor what is wicked, you've heard all this before."

"Far be it from to tell other angels how to interpret God's love," he said. "But I don't think someone so infinite, so boundless and merciful as Her, is in any way limited in the amount of love She feels, or who She bestows it upon. She is love itself. And I think, personally, that picking and choosing who we show love to is a bastardization of the purpose of an angel. That's not what we were created for."

"Even the irredeemably wicked people?" Crowley drawled. "Even the ones who don't care or want to be redeemed?"

"Especially," he bit. "Crowley, I realize I haven't been the nicest to you of late, but--"

"That was my fault," she said. "I started it, and speaking of which, I still have to apolo--"

"Oh, will you let me talk?" he said. "It's been 2600 years. I know we don't see each other often, and so that's only a handful of meetings, but still. You're a good person, and I know that... that not everyone is going to be as inspired by Raphael's sacrifice as I am. From your perspective, a healer healing is only natural, even for the wicked ones..."

Aziraphale frowned.

Crowley grew tenser and tenser by the second.

"I must beg your pardon, dear, but could you clarify something for me?" he asked. "Why is Raphael _dying_ to heal demons nothing, but me showing you the slightest kindness apparently inexplicable?"

The silence stretched on.

"I've been meaning to apologize for that," Crowley said. "You see, the reason for all this, is that I'm a moron. Obviously I wasn't thinking when I said all that. Regretted it as soon as you started speaking yourself and I heard what I sounded like. Instant realization that I was a dick. Raphael, was-- yeah. That story of his martyrdom is... poetic. I understand where you're coming from now. I'm sorry."

Aziraphale fidgeted with his hands. "I suppose this has all just been a terrible misunderstanding."

Crowley nodded.

"Well," Aziraphale said. "I believe I owe you a nap, right about now. To 'sleep it off,' as you say."

Crowley gave a wan smile. "You don't have to stay with me while I sleep, angel. I can take care of myself."

He tutted. "I'm going to ignore that you said that."

He took her by the arm to lead her back to the inn's room, and Crowley leaned more heavily on him than she did on her cane.

* * *

Crowley was asleep within seconds of crawling into bed. Aziraphale smiled fondly as he joined her, and arranged the blankets just so.

He woke up about eight hours later, and decided to stay and wait for Crowley to do the same.

And Crowley slept for a month and a half, and Aziraphale stayed in the room with her the entire time.

* * *

**Rome, 41 AD**

He found Crowley next so soon again, in a random bar in Rome that he liked to frequent, luck of all lucks.

"Crawly-- Crowley?" he asked, grinning, drinking in the sight of him. Strange clothes, this time around. A military headdress for the dead, a frankly weird eye-covering device, and a women's hairstyle cropped short, but Crowley was most definitely presenting male, Aziraphale could feel it. "Oh, sorry, you must excuse me. Where are my manners?"

He cupped Crowley's face and drew it towards him, placing a precise, delicate kiss on his lips. Crowley's eyes were blown full yellow beneath the smoked glass. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Local custom," Aziraphale said pleasantly. "Very rude to skip it. May as well declare to all the world that we're enemies. It would be rather showing our hand, wouldn't it?"

"Ah," he said. "Smart. You're smart."

"Thank you." He preened. "So, fancy running into you here. Still a demon, then?"

"What kinda stupid question is that, 'still a demon'? What else am I gonna be, an aardvark?" He downed a large swallow of his drink, feeling his cheeks heat.

Aziraphale gave a twinkling, somewhat pained smile and held up his own mug. "Salutaria," he said. "In Rome long?"

"Just nipped in for a quick temptation. You?"

"I thought I'd try Petronius's new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters."

"I've never eaten an oyster."

Oh, how perfect.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, a fair bit more dramatically than was warranted, especially since he hadn't eaten an oyster yet either. "Oh, well, let me tempt you to-- Oh, no. No, that's your job, isn't it?"

* * *

Aziraphale had come to a conclusion, a while back. You see, it was okay to commit minor sins. Borderline ones. Ones just past the edge of borderline but still not too bad. He could eat, for example, and enjoy and even crave it. Gabriel could pursue and cultivate his vanity and pride. A large number of angels were deeply self-righteous, moreso than was acceptable.

So Aziraphale had decided sex was okay.

On the wheels of that realization, his mind had immediately gone to Crowley.

To be safe, though, he thought it would be best if all anyone saw was a hyper-intelligent, attractive, charming demon using his not-inconsiderable wiles to tempt an angel. It would only be natural that Aziraphale would succumb. Understandable. Expected, even. Who could withstand a perfectly crafted temptation from Hell's most remarkable demon? Certainly not a lowly principality.

Not that the principalities were sluts, though. This had nothing to do with that. But. Crowley was clearly one of the finest demons Hell had-- he was on Heaven's Most Wanted list, for crying out loud-- whereas Aziraphale was an angel of the lowest sphere and had been demoted for a reason. He could hardly be expected to hold up against all that. It wouldn't even be fair.

And absolutely no one would blame him.

So he had spent the whole meal alternating between flirting outrageously and dropping hints that he would be extremely easy to tempt right now and was very open to the idea.

"Oysters are meant to be an aphrodisiac, you know," he said, looking directly at Crowley as he brought one to his lips and ate it as seductively as possible.

"Huh," Crowley said, sounding vaguely interested. It wasn't easy to tell, with those confounded eye-cover-things, but he didn't even seem to be looking at Aziraphale-- or the oysters, for that matter. "What's an aphrodisiac?"

"Why, Crowley," Aziraphale smiled. "It's something that's meant to inspire a lustful mood."

Crowley lurched forward and started coughing and choking, gagging on the oyster. Aziraphale stood up and pounded him heartily on the back, looking worried.

He finally settled down and got his breath back, but now his face was red and when he swiped at his eyes, he left streaks of blood behind.

"You're bleeding," Aziraphale hissed quietly.

"What? Oh," Crowley said. "No, that's just-- my eyes are watering. Demons, cry tears of blood and all that." He scrubbed at his face angrily with the sleeve of his robes. "Did I get it?"

"No," Aziraphale said. He dipped a bit of his own cloth in his drink. "Here, let me."

For the second time in one day, he took Crowley's face in his hands. He wiped away the red human-like blood with a sort of fastidious care, eliminating the smears and streaks on Crowley's temples and cheeks and around his eyes.

"It's on your hands too," he murmured, taking them into his own and washing away lines of blood on his forefingers. He took care in his task, then gave Crowley's hand one final pat and sat back in his seat. "There."

Crowley's hand snapped out to his mug and he gulped down a large portion very quickly.

"So," Aziraphale said. "Where have you been staying these days? Still Jerusalem?"

"Ah," he said. "Been doing a bit of wandering, actually. I've been considering getting involved with a band of rogues and thieves, but I don't know, I haven't had quite my fill of sight-seeing yet."

"Ah," he said. "And your temptation? Have you completed it already, or is it yet to come?"

"Oh, that," he said. "Um. Well. Caligula's been... Yaigh, uh, I might have to-- stick around, see this one through."

Aziraphale smiled. He had been in Rome for over five years now, and throughout the entirety of Caligula's reign. The man wouldn't last through the rest of the year, universally hated and utterly off-the-shits as he was. He rolled around in piles of money and drank pearls dissolved in vinegar. He was sleeping with all of his allies' wives, frequently used the phrase "remember that I can do anything to anybody," had his military attack the sea, and was planning on making his horse a consul.

If Crowley had truly 'just popped in for a quick temptation,' then his job had been done for him well before he even arrived. His presence here was entirely unnecessary.

"Well then," he said. "If you're planning on staying here long term, perhaps I can help you get settled in."

"Oh, really, that's--"

"No, no, dear, I insist," he said. "Consider it a professional favor."

"Ah," he said. "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, that sort of thing?"

"Exactly," he preened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so that we're perfectly clear, ancient Romans went around kissing all the time. Everyone-- friends, family, children, lovers, spouses, your military commanders, politicians schmoozing for votes, sometimes teachers. There's also so many different types of kisses for different occasions, and it really was all the time
> 
> But also a normal handshake was acceptable if you weren't that close/kissing would be unpleasant right then lol
> 
> Also prepare for further Roman domesticity and kissing


	5. 4.11 Centuries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kissing and softness and angst, featuring Crowley. Next chapter will center on Aziraphale, I swear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY so Crowley has chronic pain now? I debated on writing that in earlier but decided not to, for reasons I now forget. It's been sprinkled into the past chapters now, along with a few other minor edits, including Crowley's hiss, which I have inexplicably been forgetting to write. Like. Why even write Crowley as Raphael if he's not going to have chronic pain/other disabilities? What were you doing, past me? Whatever
> 
> Extremely dubious setting for the first scene here
> 
> The Roman wrist-grab "handshake" is a myth. Osculum, savium, and basium all meaning different types of kisses is also a myth-- osculum and savium started out that way as meaning affectionate peck vs deep erotic kissing, but then both became used for all types of kisses, so they came up with basium to mean specifically erotic kissing, but then that got generalized too. And in 2019, one of the dictionary definitions of 'literally' is 'figuratively,' because humans are timelessly stupid and create our own linguistic confusion.
> 
> For context, Orcus is the demonic punisher of broken oaths, and also the original creature ogre and orc myths spawned from
> 
> The stuff about demon presidents is true, even the number, oddly enough. Remember in part one of this series, where I talked about teacher demons? Yeah. That's like 30% of them. They teach
> 
> WARNING for minor physical assault

**Jerusalem, 53 AD**

The apostles had been getting shit done lately.

And Ananias and Sapphira, a local couple, had decided to fund their efforts very generously by selling one of their fields and donating the entirety of the proceeds to the apostles, which they made a very fine point about.

Only they didn't, and they lied. They sold the field for x amount of money, donated some of it, and then loudly announced that that was actually all of it.

"Ananias, why has Satan emboldened you to lie to the holy spirit and secretly hold back some of the price of the field?" Peter asked, publicly, his arms crossed and chin tilted up combatively. "As long as it remained with you, did it not remain yours? And after it was sold, was it not in your control? Why have you thought up such a deed as this in your heart? You have lied, not to men, but to God."

And then Ananias collapsed and died right then and there.

Three hours later, his wife Sapphira walked in. Nobody said a word to her at first, because they were all terrified.

"Sapphira," Peter said, going up to her. "Tell me, did you two sell the field for this much?"

"Yes, for that amount." She smiled.

"Why did you two agree to make a test of the spirit of God? Look! The feet of those who buried your husband are at the door, and they will carry you out!"

And then Sapphira also collapsed and died.

No one lies to God.

* * *

**Rome, 60 AD**

Aziraphale was thinking back on that time he lied to God.

He and Crowley had, somehow, gotten into the habit of kissing and philosophizing together for hours at a time.

It wasn't that unusual, for a particular affectionate set of friends, to kiss and chat intermittently for long periods. Currently, they were in the house of some politician or other, for some schmoozy dinner party or celebration or something (neither of them had been paying the slightest attention), sitting on some plush couch draped with expensive fabrics for the aesthetic.

Aziraphale leaned in and kissed Crowley tenderly. A freckle appeared in the center of the spot. They had noticed that early on-- Aziraphale's kisses leaving freckles on Crowley. He quite liked the look of them, honestly, they seemed to really tie Crowley's whole corporation together-- between the red hair and the pale skin, it seemed only natural that he be simply covered in freckles, and something deep inside Aziraphale preened on seeing them. They all had to be miracled away periodically, of course. It wouldn't do for a demon to walk around covered in the marks of angel kisses. Even humans called freckles angel kisses, and Heaven certainly knew about the concept.

Crowley theorized that it had to do with angels being crafted out of light the way humans were crafted out of dust, and so the kiss of an angel was a concentrated form of sunlight and love, warm enough to darken a few cells instantly.

"--And it's just, She never mentioned it again?"

"Hmm," Crowley said. He looked-- just a bit-- lovestruck. But then, that had happened a few times before.

And oh, Aziraphale treasured those moments even as he told himself not to read too much into them. It would never happen, anyway.

Sex, maybe, was a possibility if Crowley ever felt inclined to it. But love? That was forbidden. They could never have that.

And Aziraphale had no reason to want it in the first place, frankly.

"Maybe She approved," Crowley said. "You did a good deed. You saved human lives. The first human lives, in fact. If Adam and Eve had died out, if God had had to start fresh with all new humans, they would have been perfect. Right? Not having sinned. Heaven would have been more on their guard, it wouldn't have played out exactly the same. The question of divine sovereignty is never answered, all dissidents immediately suppressed. The universe never finds out if humans can rule themselves as well as God can, there is no free will, no alternatives, and God is automatically a tyrant, isn't She? Great Plan's blown to bits."

"Hm," Aziraphale said, and this time Crowley leaned in to kiss him. And he didn't get more than a few inches away before he came back again, for another kiss.

"God could never be a tyrant," he said. "That's blasphemy."

Crowley rolled his eyes, barely visible beneath those confounded 'sunglasses.' "You know, traditionally, the rulers who forbid all criticism of themselves have never been good ones. Also-- usually tyrants."

"You can't compare God to a human ruler."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, putting a hand behind Aziraphale's neck to pull him in for another kiss.

Aziraphale pulled back as their lips parted. "That's it? You're not even going to try to argue your point? What sort of demon are you?"

Something in Crowley's eyes flashed. "One who's a bit sick of this," he said. "Why is God _always_ above all standards? Why do none of the human rules apply to Her? Or even Her own rules? She writes down in Her commandments: You must not commit murder. And this is-- hell-- one thousand years after Sodom and Gomorrah. And She's got Moses writing this down, as if Moses didn't just deliver ten lethal plagues onto Egypt. As if God didn't actively choose to kill every firstborn in the land. And the entire military. And I know, y'know, no army has ever done anything good, but c'mon, still. And then right after She says that, She has the Hebrews go and fight how many wars in the Promised Land? She's a hypocrite, She is."

"There's a difference between killing and murder."

"Yeah, what God does is worse," Crowley said. "It's so much worse. It's mass scale. It's brutal, genocidal. Enacted on Her own subjects in order to maintain power and authority. To maintain control. I mean, c'mon, for Hell's sakes, what do you think the Flood was all about? The humans literally hadn't done anything wrong. It was about purifying the gene pool. Can't have tainted angel blood mixed in there. And so She calls all the hybrids bastards, and sends Gabriel to take care of it. You think Hell didn't hear about all that?"

"I have no way of knowing," Aziraphale said. "You're the only demon who's ever bothered to speak to me."

"You've never met another demon before?"

"I didn't say that."

"Ah."

They sat in silence for a bit, and Aziraphale watched the humans out in their element. Rich, powerful people, every one of them. Dressed in finery, talking and laughing and drinking and debating. Living. Guiding themselves, figuring it out on their own.

Humanity has left the Garden.

Listening to Crowley, one could easily believe that was a good thing, but was it truly? Wouldn't it nicer, more simple, if everyone was only ever kind and just did exactly as God said? They didn't need to build these cities. They didn't need to reach for the stars-- Heaven knows they'd all still be speaking one language if they hadn't tried. They'd all still understand each other. They didn't need to have these debates and disagreements and all this dreadful political nonsense that they have never once gotten right, because only God is fit to rule. Humans have war, now. Violence and disease and mortality. How could that be a good thing? How could that possibly be worth giving up perfect, sinless eternities in Paradise?

And Aziraphale decides that's a really good point, so he says it all.

Crowley is silent for a moment. A long moment. Just when Aziraphale is thinking he won't respond, he says, "There's a difference between sinless and moral."

He frowned. "Can you explain that?"

"'Sin' is the theocratic word for 'crime.' They're the same concept, really, but one's in the public sphere and the other in the religious. And just because you're doing everything by the book doesn't mean you're living a truly good life. Even without loopholes and omissions and half-hearted efforts, there's still always the possibility that the book itself-- the actual law-- isn't moral."

Aziraphale shook his head. "You cannot conflate those two concepts," he said. "They're complete negatives of each other. Religion is meant to guide individuals in leading moral lives; legality only exists to protect the interests of the state. The two have nothing to do with each other."

"Oh yeah?" Crowley asked. "Was Leviticus just one big typo, then?"

"Humans are no longer under the Mosaic Law. You know this. Jesus--"

"You're missing the point. Why did the Mosaic Law exist in the first place?"

"Because the humans needed it at the time. Because Jesus hadn't yet come to the Earth to teach them and explain lessons, to replace hard and fast rules with moral principles."

"But why not just send him earlier?" Crowley threw up his hands. "What was the point of the delay? What, did waiting 'til the first century seem more 'timely'? Fuck that! What about--"

"Crowley. _Crowley,"_ he said. "We could debate this for hours. And we will, later. But," he chewed his lip. "We were talking about the flaming sword."

"Right! Yes. You lied to God."

"I'm quite anxious about that," he said, stealing a kiss, as if for reassurance. "As you know, I now have to report to Gabriel up in Heaven to give centennial reports--"

"Uh-huh."

"--And I just had my first one in 53, and, well. Well, I told you all about it, didn't I? You've heard all this. Oh, I must be boring you so dre--"

"What's worrying you, angel? You can tell me. I won't mind." He punctuated the statement with a kiss, and Aziraphale felt warm.

"Apparently," he said, dropping his voice low. "Just a few months before I went up there, the apostles had some trouble down in Jerusalem. Some false donors embezzling or something, I'm not clear on the details."

"And what happened?" Crowley frowned. "You didn't tell me about this. Not much, anyway."

Aziraphale fiddled with the folds of Crowley's robes, making them all fall neatly and evenly. 'Fussy,' Crowley liked to call him. But he always said it so fondly, and there's been times when he's seen Aziraphale be anxious and even given him something to fuss with, so he can't be too bothered by it.

He gives him another kiss, impulsively.

"God killed them," he whispered. "Struck them down where they stood."

There was a beat of silence, an expectant pause more than anything.

"She has what's called a zero-tolerance policy on lying," he said. "Or at least, lying to _Her._ But," he bit down on his lips subconsciously, as if to seal in the words. "But _I_ did that and got away with it. No repercussions. Not only am I alive, but I haven't Fallen. And I don't deserve it."

There was a beat, where Crowley thought Aziraphale meant something by those words that was completely different from what Aziraphale actually meant. Then his brain reloaded everything he knew of his angel, and he got mad.

 _"No,"_ he said. "You have never been more wrong in your entire life. I don't think _anyone_ has ever been more wrong in all of history. You do not deserve to Fall. You could never. Aziraphale, angel, you're too precious. You're too good. God would never sentence you to Fall because She's all-knowing and only an idiot of the worst and lowest sort wouldn't want you around. You're the best angel She has, the best one ever created, and that's an objective fact."

Aziraphale blushed fiercely, absolutely certain that that was in no way an 'objective fact.'

Crowley seemed either oblivious or uncaring to Aziraphale's reaction, and, overcome, Aziraphale brushed a hand along his temple. Then followed the gesture by trailing his thumb across his cheekbone, letting his fingers push into short-cropped red hair, and bringing his other hand up to do the same. He pulled Crowley towards him entirely, and this time, the kiss lingered.

Crowley shifted forward a bit, looming over Aziraphale without really being in his lap, and the angel sank further into the softness of the couch, kissing Crowley again and again and again every time their lips parted.

"Oi, get a room!" someone shouted, and a few other people laughed and jeered agreements.

The pair of them parted, breathless and grinning and laughing themselves.

"'Get a room,' what nonsense," Crowley said. "We're in Rome. As if this city doesn't have politically-important orgies sometimes."

"Oh, you old serpent, you exaggerate," Aziraphale said, meaning to give Crowley a friendly swat on the arm for his troubles, but what actually happened was he lightly laid his hand on his arm and kept it there. No clue how that went so wrong. "Even Rome has some standards of decency. Not that we would have done anything indecent, of course."

"Right, right, of course," Crowley said. "Just normal Roman kisses of affection here."

Aziraphale grinned and gave him another. "You almost make it sound angelic."

Crowley reeled back, face morphed with exaggerated mock outrage. "How dare you! _Think_ about my reputation, please."

"Oh, always. You're quite fearsome, my dear; I'm terrified."

Crowley grinned and gave him a peck that landed on just the edge of his lip. "Good," he said. "As you should be."

* * *

**Rome, 64 AD**

Rome was a large city, at the heart of a vast empire, the largest one in this part of the world. The city itself had over two million people in it. And there were grand villas on Palatine Hill, with indoor plumbing and heated floors and grandiose architecture, the type that would inspire the word 'palace.'

That was not the reality of Rome though.

It was a single city of two million people, and almost all of them lived in shoddy, poorly built slums, wooden apartment buildings all crammed together in the urban center. They were small, and terrible, and they held the majority.

Only Patrician families were recognized as legal entities. And while there were laws (that were even enforced) about how one could treat their slaves, and owners often freed slaves for good work or to stimulate the economy, this did not change that one in four Romans were enslaved. And this did not touch on the absolute power, to the point of life and death, of the Pater familias over all that were his own.

To say nothing of the gladiators, the highly revered and degraded celebrities who were given no rights or dignities whatsoever.

And then one day, a stadium caught on fire, in the city center.

And the slums (wooden, small, shoved on top of each other) went up like matchsticks.

* * *

Crowley had been woken up by the shouting.

He had bolted out of bed and out of his shit apartment, running into the street. Things were on fire, things were on fire, things were on fire.

_He needed to find his angel._

He was running, he was looking for blue in a sea of moving yellow.

Fuck fuck fuck _fuck._

There was screaming, there was panic, there were people shoving and running and sobbing. Smoke filled the air so thick Crowley swore he could feel it; he felt ash landing on his head and shoulders, he remembered the layer of ash coating Aziraphale all over, while he stood in the center of Sodom and cried. He remembered feeling it as he clapped a hand over the angel's mouth, holding in a sin that would damn him. He remembered feeling it on his hand as he took it before they both flew.

Rome was burning and ash landed on Crowley they way it had landed on Aziraphale in Sodom.

Crowley's ears were ringing. Humans kept brushing up against him, kept touching him, moving him out of their way.

He had left his walking stick in his apartment. He didn't know if it was on fire.

He was pretty sure he was moving.

He didn't know how much time passed, while he was in that state, or how far he moved, if he did at all, but when he came back to himself, the fire was roaringly loud in his ears, screaming and raging and hissing as it evaporated tree sap from wood.

Crowley picked a direction and ran.

He made it about fifty feet before he tripped over what he hoped wasn't a person, especially seeing as they had no light.

He laid on the ground, for just a few moments, before he swallowed a sob and picked himself up. He kept going.

* * *

They say that Nero played the fiddle while Rome burned.

They say that he started it himself. That he wanted to raze the city so he could build himself a new palace.

Nero, of course, cast the blame on that weird new Jewish cult, the Christians.

People said a lot of things. It really depended on who they preferred to hate politically. The truth probably had something to do with poverty and the terrible construction and design of the slums. None of this changed that six days later, when the fire had _finally_ been put out, ten of the fourteen districts in the city had been decimated.

Crowley found Aziraphale three days after it went out. The angel acted as if it was nothing, and so Crowley did too.

He found his walking stick in the rubble. It had survived hellfire; this was nothing.

Crowley packed all his emotions away and drew himself up into an imposing, careless demon.

* * *

**Rome, 79 AD**

THE INFERNAL TIMES

ISSUE 4061, YEAR 4082

"God Is Writing A Book?"............................................. p. 3

"Carrot-And-Stick Method Made Formal Policy".......... p. 8

"You Were Assigned A Sin Specialty For A Reason".... p. 10

"10 Temptation Tricks That Will Damn Any Human"... p. 13

Gossip...................................................................... p. 15

Human World Updates.............................................. p. 24

What's New In Torture.............................................. p. 25

Noteworthy Accomplishments.................................. p. 30

Upcoming Events..................................................... p. 32

Crowley skimmed his fingers over the etchings on the clay tablet. Despite the regular human world updates section, despite the entire "modernization" department dedicated to making sin cool and appealing to the youth, Hell was still very much behind the times. Not that Crowley was complaining. The day the Infernal Times switched to papyrus was the day he lost the ability to read it.

He reached the bottom of the contents page, and the miracled clay responded to his anticipation and transformed into the first article.

He was lounging in Aziraphale's city center apartment-- which was nicer than most, but still, ya know, a shitty apartment controlled by an even shittier landlord.

"Oi, your book project's on Hell's radar now," he said.

Aziraphale looked from his work desk, setting his quill down. "Oh? Oh! Oh, dear, were you the... what is it, informant? Should I be keeping secrets from you?"

"Nah, don't bother," he said. "Wasn't me. As if I tell Hell anything. No, this was someone else."

"Oh, well that's alright then," he said, relaxing and picking his quill back up. "I mean. It's not-- It's not necessarily _good,_ that Hell knows about the Bible, given that it isn't finished being written yet, and lots of those older parts could really do to have more copies--"

Aziraphale continued chatting absently, even as he went back to translating. He was making a study of the great Greek philosophical works lately, copying them down as truly and thoughtfully as he could into Classical Latin. The Roman Empire seemed to have this longstanding opinion that Greek culture in all its aspects was a bit more "high society" than their own. A proper Roman education included learning Greek, and it was just common enough that Crowley had been able to justify dragging his feet about learning Latin for the first eight years he had been in town, before Aziraphale finally snapped and told him it was really quite rude to refuse to learn the language of the land you were staying in.

Crowley had said something that Aziraphale suspected was a Classical Chinese swear word, and then learned Latin.

This translation of philosophical writings from Greek into Latin was not, per se, a direly needed essential. There were not many Romans who could read, but only Latin. But there had to be a few, and literature should be a shared thing, available to all. Knowledge should be barred from no one.

He and Crowley had had several long discussions about Aziraphale's guilt over the Tower of Babel, and confusing the humans' languages, and the demon was very gentle and comforting about the whole thing, so supportive, really. Aziraphale was fairly certain he should be held at fault for it, that he had committed an atrocity there and should be treated as such, but it was hard to insist on that with Crowley there, being soft towards him.

Crowley suddenly frowned, stood up, plucked a pear from the fruit bowl and set it down harshly on Aziraphale's desk. Then he walked away.

"Hm? Oh, thank you dear."

"That's a temptation."

"Hmm," Aziraphale said. Crowley heard the snap and crunch of teeth sinking in, and he nearly spontaneously combusted.

"Are you insssane?!" he shrieked. "Why would you eat that?! You'll Fall!"

"No I won't."

"Yesss you will! Oh my God! Azssiraphale, you can't jusst _ssuccumb_ to temptation! What the fuck!"

"But it's fine. Nothing's happened."

"It will!"

There was another crunch. Crowley forced his corporation to remain standing.

"See? It's fine."

"Nothing'sss fine! I'm going to die! You can't _Fall,_ it'll be, I'll-- _Oh my fu--"_

 _"Crowley."_ Soft hands landed on his shoulders. Angel scent was suddenly nearby and filling his nostrils, warmth radiating forward. Crowley hadn't even noticed him moving. "Nothing's happened. Nothing's _going_ to happen, not at this point. It's just a piece of fruit. It's not even magic. It's _fine."_

Crowley drew in a shuddering breath. Aziraphale's hands rubbed soothingly up and down his arms.

"I can't be your temptation," he murmured. "I'm a demon, Aziraphale, but not _that_ ssort of demon. If you Fell becausse of me, I'd never forgive myssself. That'ss not ssomething I'd wish on my worssst enemy. You choossing to sssin on your own, that'ss one thing, and I ssupport it wholeheartedly. Love it, even. But I can't be your... excusse, I can't be ressponsssible... I don't ever want to be your temptation, angel."

"Why did you give me the pear?" he asked, not accusing in the slightest. Crowley resisted the urge to tuck his face into his neck.

"Article I jusst read," he said, then laughed at how absurd it sounded. "They're going to sstart punishing demonsss who don't do temptationss within their specialty on the regular."

"Specialty?"

"Yeah-- Uh, how much do you know about Hell'ss hierarchy?"

"Nothing."

"Oh. Okay, sso there'ss Satan at the top, he'ss the king--"

"Do give me some credit, Crowley, everyone who knows about Hell knows about Satan."

"Okay, well you said nothing," he said. "And anyway, after Satan there'ss the seven princess--"

"I knew about that too."

"Okay, what _don't_ you know then?"

"Anything else."

Crowley hissed in a breath. "Okay. So each of the seven princes represents one of the seven deadly sins--"

"Oh! I didn't know that."

"Shut up! And anyway, Beelzebub is the Prince of Gluttony, and ze's also the prince I answer to. I am technically a gluttony demon."

"Why?"

"Because Beelzebub's my Prince, and ze is--"

"No no, I mean, why is Beelzebub your prince in the first place? Surely you would be more skilled at tempting towards other sins. You have certain... talents."

"Hhhnngh, alright, I Fell for apostasy, I was supposed to go to Pride, but there was already way too many demons there, and they wanted to keep the numbers even, and I got randomly assigned to Gluttony. I'm still pissed I didn't get Laziness with Prince Astaroth, or Ashtoreth, however you wanna say it, but that's another story. Anyway, the only two gluttony temptations I have ever performed in my life were Adam and Eve with the damned forbidden fruit, and you, now, with that pear. Only now apparently that's unacceptable and I have to actually convince some poor sod to eat something once every ten years or so. Oh! And I told Jesus to eat some fucking bread once, but he didn't listen to me. Idiot."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said. "Do not speak ill of the dead!"

"What! Why? What harm's it gonna do? He's up in Heaven, having a grand old time. First human soul to make it up there, isn't that exciting?"

They got derailed into a long and mostly nonsensical discussion after that.

The pear sat abandoned on Aziraphale's writing desk, and the cursed clay tablet on the couch. Crowley never finished reading it. He never got to the blurb in Upcoming Events about Aim's plan to erupt Mount Vesuvius and bury both Pompeii and Herculaneum.

* * *

Pagan cultures tended to put a high emphasis on fertility, as a necessity for the continuation of society, both in regard to crops and to people. As such, sex became a vital, sacred act. It was to be celebrated. It was beautiful and enjoyable and necessary, the natural way of things. The gods themselves enjoyed sex. It had the power to create new gods.

First century Christians adopted a different attitude.

Influenced by the popular philosophy of asceticism at the time, they decided that the church leadership must practice chastity and celibacy, eschewing both sex and marriage. However, it was very clear that God had commanded humans right in the beginning to “be fruitful and become many,” and no matter what they wanted, the church leadership couldn’t afford to ignore that wholesale. It would lead to disaster within just one generation.

And so non-leaders could have sex—with stipulations. It must only be for the sake of procreation. Out of responsibility and faithfulness, it should be done only within the confines of marriage as well.

“Only for procreation” meant a lot of things. Any sex that could not produce a child to be raised by committed parents was banned. This included oral sex, manual sex, anal sex, masturbation, all homosexuality, and sex with a barren partner. Indulging in any of those things was an act of lust, and lust alone. It was something that would be done by those immoral and sexually loose pagans, not any good followers of the Christ, that was for certain.

Paul was clear.

He went on his missions. He preached around the Mediterranean. He said all these things, and they were written down carefully, meticulously, preserved for future generations and destined to be added to the Bible.

* * *

**Rome, 96 AD**

“And it’s done,” Aziraphale said, setting his quill down with finality. “The last words of the last book. _May the undeserved kindness of the Lord Jesus be with the holy ones.”_

“Don’t like that,” Crowley said. Aziraphale waved them off, and they moved on.

They’d had that debate before, over that phrase, and how often it was used. Its appearances in the Bible, and its frequent use from angels, and the unsubtle encouragement for Christian leaders to pick it up themselves.

Crowley had decided at some point that they were against the philosophy that absolutely no one truly _deserved_ God’s kindness, or Heaven’s kindness. It was very easy for Aziraphale to argue against that, obviously, as it was completely preposterous and supported by no one else at all, but it always left him feeling gross and grimy when he said the appropriate words. He tended to spend days in the bath afterwards and avoid Crowley.

“And anyway, it certainly took you long enough. Four thousand years to write one bloody book?” Crowley said, sidestepping the issue, because they knew all of that too.

“It wasn’t four thousand years,” Aziraphale said. “The project officially began in 1513 BC. And the Bible isn’t one book; it’s an anthology of many. So, essentially, it took 1609 years to write 66 books. And 960 of those years were spent hovering over the shoulders of psalmists. Every song had to be just right, you see, and oh, the humans had so many wonderful things they wanted to sing. David, especially. Lovely young man, him and his Jonathan.”

“Shame about that father,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale hummed agreement.

“Anyway,” he said. “Now you can relax a bit. There’ll be no more need to duck out of taverns and hide yourself away whenever an apostle is in town. No risk of any encounters being recorded down in the Bible for all of time. You can rest easy now.”

“I always rest easy.”

“Of course, dear. But perhaps now we can have a lovely dinner out without you jumping every time you hear the name ‘Paul.’”

Crowley slouched in their chair morosely. “Hardly my fault he’s such an insufferable prick.”

Mark and Luke had kicked around in Rome to write books too for a while, but really, Paul was the apostle that Crowley had decided they needed to watch out for.

"And," Aziraphale said. "I won't have to keep making trips out to Antioch or Jerusalem or all around every city in Greece, it seems."

"Yeah," Crowley said. "Yeah, you can just stay here in Rome."

The angel had had eleven different assignments that took him to Roman Greece in recent years. The last three assignments had had helpful suggestions written in with the instructions, stating that it might be more efficient to just relocate there indefinitely. Crowley, on the other hand, was getting assignments that forced them to travel north, more and more. Hell was interested in those tiny underdog peoples trying to fight off the entire mighty Roman Empire. Crowley was firmly not looking into it. The last thing they wanted was to get personally invested.

Something about Aziraphale rolling up his scroll and stopping his inkwell seemed all too final in the worst possible way, but Crowley pushed that thought away viciously.

* * *

**Rome, 207 AD**

"I really have to get going," Crowley said, and damn if she wasn't reluctant. Aziraphale's arm tightened around her waist. She was already fully in his lap, draped over him as thoroughly as his own toga, but she found a way to wriggle closer.

"I'm serious," she mumbled into his neck. "I really need to get going. Hell is expecting me."

Aziraphale kissed her neck in response. And then he did it again. And again. And again. And again.

"Angel--"

"It's terrible that you have to go back to Hell."

"I don't exactly have a--"

"I know, I know, but still. A meeting, really? Isn't Hell all about chaos and anarchy? This seems counterintuitive."

"I gotta go, I gotta tell them all about my evil deeds." Aziraphale kissed up the line of her throat, and Crowley tilted her head back to accommodate. Aziraphale could feel the vibrations as she spoke. "Plan for future ones. I'm gonna-- hhnnng-- ohh, I'm gonna move around all the equipment on an aqueduct construction project. Angel, you're going to leave marks."

"Yes," he agreed.

"I can't-- angel!"

"Just tell them you've been having sex with humans. That's a sin."

Crowley's skin heated up even further at that, staining a lovely rose blush. Aziraphale kissed it, trailing freckles in his wake. Beautiful, Crowley looked so beautiful like this. He could so easily have her squirming in his lap. But Crowley had drawn the line before that, had very clearly indicated that going there was too far.

It seemed arbitrary to Aziraphale. _This_ was most definitely _not_ normal Roman kisses of greeting and affection. _This_ would get them thrown out of a tavern. It was already well past the point of something that could be excused as a cultural necessity. But a boundary was a boundary, and Aziraphale would respect it, always.

Crowley didn't want to have sex, for her own reasons. Crowley _did_ want to crawl into Aziraphale's lap and make out with him for positively indulgent lengths of time.

It seemed silly, now. When he had first found Crowley in Rome, Aziraphale had wanted nothing more than for her to tempt him, so that he would have an excuse to succumb. Now, though, he was able to recognize that his demonic temptation fantasy was a terrifying nightmare scenario in Crowley's eyes. Admittedly, in hindsight, it had been a very selfish desire.

Crowley would _never_ intentionally tempt him, not if she thought there was even the remotest possibility of him actually giving in. Incidentally, this meant that everything she did do that tempted Aziraphale to sin was entirely unintentional, and all on him.

"'M gonna be late," she mumbled over his lips.

"Slothful," Aziraphale teased.

They continued like this for several minutes, ignoring that the rest of the world still existed. They were together, on this very nice couch in Crowley's spacious apartment, and that was all that mattered.

They breathed each other in like it was settling to their very souls.

Crowley suddenly tensed like a pulled wire, then sprung off Aziraphale and teleported him outside the city. Her freckles vanished in an instant, and she scrambled to snap her sunglasses in place.

Eligos materialized in a cloud of stinking sulfur. Footsteps strode closer, and before Crowley could do much more than back up and almost trip, a hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her down to his level, wrenching her neck and pulling out a half cut-off cry.

"You got lucky this time, Crowley," Eligos said. "Beelzebub almost sent _Orcus_ after you."

Eligos kicked her shin for good measure, and then dragged her back down to Hell.

* * *

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said, throwing open the door when she showed up at his apartment a week later. "I-I wanted to apologize, in case I'd offended you in some way, but I didn't want to come over, especially without being invited, as clearly, you didn't want to see me, you teleported me outside of Rome itself, and I have no idea what I did to cause such great offense, I thought we were just kissing the same as we always do, but I must have crossed some line, and I am _dreadfully_ sorry, truly, I never meant to make you uncomfo--"

 _"Angel,"_ she said. "It's fine. You didn't offend me."

"Then...?" Aziraphale trailed off. "Oh! Where are my manners? Do come in, Crowley, let's discuss this more comfortably."

Blue light shifted backwards and away. Crowley tried to feel out the floor with her cane as subtly as possible, which isn't subtle. She knows Aziraphale's apartment pretty well by now, but, well. The angel is messy. No telling what disaster has happened to it since the last time she was here.

But Aziraphale has to be used to the cane by now, doesn't he?

She made her way over to where she knew the couch would be and sat down, Aziraphale joining her a polite distance away. Crowley was keenly aware of the lack of a greeting kiss, and a lesser demon would probably be offended at the snub, but she figured Aziraphale was just trying to be considerate.

"You didn't offend me, or do anything wrong," she said. "I was late to that meeting, it was supposed to have started fifteen minutes ago by that point, and Beelzebub sent Eligos to come fetch me. I figured you didn't want to be caught by a strange demon as well, so I removed you from the situation. Fairly rude of me to do that without permission or any warning. I'm sorry."

"Ah," Aziraphale said.

"I would have dropped by earlier and explained, but the meeting dragged on." Crowley shrugged.

"Oh, that's alright, dear, I understand," he said. "But how did you know Eligos was coming? Before they arrived, I mean? I didn't sense anything."

She shrugged again. "Demon thing, maybe. I just did. Time is like that sometimes, it tends to overlap and fold in on itself. You look at it just right, you can see the future a bit. Ya know?"

"No, no, definitely not. I absolutely do not know. I have definitely never seen the future."

"Eh," she said. "Try harder, then."

Aziraphale paused. "I didn't mean to get you in trouble at work, Crowley."

"Oh, angel, it's nothing, really, I should have--"

"No, no, I persuaded you to--"

"Really, I'm fine. I'm a grownup, angel, I--"

"I do hope they didn't lecture you too badly, dear, you didn't--"

"Angel," she put her hands on his shoulders, and leaned in for a quick, misaligned peck. "I'm fine."

Blue light moved around in quick, small adjustments. "You're certain? I don't want to be a cause of stress for you, Crowley."

"I'm _positive."_

She drew Aziraphale in for another kiss, and that was the end of that.

* * *

**Rome, 325 AD**

The Empire had been persecuting Christians sporadically for a few centuries, mostly whenever there was some crisis, because then it was very easy to point to them as a scapegoat and say, “oh, it was Those Dickheads, the Christians, they must have angered the gods again due to their being atheistic dickheads.”

The more devout Christians had also started wandering out into the desert to live alone in caves and commune only with God, leaving behind all sinful temptations and pleasures of the flesh to practice _real_ asceticism.

Only then there were enough pious cave-dwelling Christians that they started banding together, but that wouldn’t become a real issue for the rest of the world for a while yet.

They had also come up with the concept of “orthodoxy” in the last century, something distinctly different from the vast diverse pagan plurality of belief, and immediately other Christians got up in arms about it and created Gnosticism, which started out as a heresy about the _knowledge_ that All Things Are Evil, _Especially_ Humans, And Jesus Wasn’t One.

Crowley and Aziraphale had both been extremely hard at work, for literally the first time in either of their lives.

Well. There had been a day, here and there, when one or both of them had had to put a lot of genuine effort in. But never before for such a prolonged period of time.

Anyway. Rome had basically been passively hating the Christians for the past three centuries. But then.

Constantine I was vying for power, and the night before the big battle, he saw a mysterious sign appear in the sky, and heard a voice say “in this sign conquer.”

(This would come back to bite the entire world in the ass.)

And so Constantine determined that he had been blessed by the hand of the Christian god and immediately converted and made some legal changes so that things were very different for Christians, which he could do now, having just crushed all his political opponents in glorious battle.

Also now heresy was treasonous and a threat to the Empire, as the empire was Christian, ruled by a Christian emperor.

But then Arius of Alexandria started saying some shit. Namely, that if God made everything, then that meant She also made Jesus, who was a subordinate to Her. Now, this had been widely accepted and seen as a basic fact while Jesus was alive. Then the Christians basically forgot about it for a while, all hyped up on the idea of the Messiah physically freeing them, and as decades passed, metaphorically freeing them into his kingdom. But all this Christ worship had gotten turned around and mixed up at some point, and now everyone in the Roman Empire was pointing fingers at each other and rioting in the streets over what was or was not heretical.

So Constantine gathered a bunch of bishops in Nicaea to sort this shit out. And the bishops there debated and came up with a new concept, the idea of the Trinity, so that everyone could be right and no one had been wrong, per se. The doctrine makes sense, Christ was a human but also not subordinate to God, it was totally okay that everyone had been worshiping him on the same level.

The concept of a trifold god was not an uncommon one in pagan cultures, but they were usually female deities.

But the Christian one was totally different, and separate, and had always been like this, actually.

All was well.

* * *

**Rome, 410**

Hell had discovered parchment. They took to it like a fish to water.

Crowley was holding a brimstone-scented parchment in her hand right now, and she couldn't read it.

She closed her eyes and sat down on the edge of her bed. There had to be a way around this. Hell didn't send missives unless they could avoid it; this was definitely something important. Almost certainly a new assignment.

She could ask Aziraphale to read it, and he would, of course, but then he would know she was blind. And he would be sympathetic or pitying or _worried._ Right now he was off the mind that Hell was for demons in the way that Heaven was for angels-- that they liked being there, or were supposed to, at least. That it had been designed to be wonderful for them, and was only different due to demons having different tastes, different things they enjoyed.

Aziraphale's ability to empathize stops right where his black-and-white thinking starts. Sodom and Gomorrah had nearly shattered it, seeing Crowley as a _former angel_ for the first time and a willing apostate had nearly pushed him over the edge into Falling. There is a 0% of him reacting calmly to finding out that God blinded Crowley, and worse, it was for the sake of a shitty ironic joke. The patron of the blind is now one of them, the angel of healing can heal everyone but herself. Funny.

No, no, it'd be a whole production, and really, telling Aziraphale isn't worth the bother. Just because they're at the point now where she trusts him not to try and use it against her, one up the enemy, doesn't mean he needs to know everything. Much better to find a different solution.

She stands, and reaches out her hand, and a summoning circle etches itself into the floor with fire. She decides to forego the magic triangle inside it; no need for binding and compulsion here.

She takes a moment to make the mental switch from Vulgar Latin to Low Enochian.

"I call upon the demon Amy, President of Hell."

(Hell had created the position of 'president' a while ago. 28.87% of demons specialized in teaching sinful arts to humans-- namely magic and writing and math or science. 'President,' at this time, was a word typically used in educational contexts, and had a similar meaning to 'principal' today. Hell's presidents are outside of the typical hierarchy of king--> prince--> duke--> marquess--> everyone else. 'President' denoted a specific role and style of corrupting humans rather than an actual rank.)

A flash of red appeared before her. "Crowley?" Amy asked. "Where the heck am I? Why'd you summon me?"

"I need you to read something for me."

"...I was in Aleppo."

"Short trip."

"People could have seen me! Crowley, what if you had summoned me while I was in public, and everyone saw me disappear? What then?"

"Well, did that happen?"

"...No."

"Great. I need you to read this." She held out the missive, which was a dark and faint red itself. A cursed object.

Amy took it, and then great silence followed.

"Out loud, Amy, I need you to read it out loud--"

"Oh! I didn't--"

"I just can't see the fucking--"

"I forgot, I don't--" She cleared her throat. "Alright. 'Demon Crowley, we need you to relocate up past Hadrian's Wall in Britain posthaste. Stay there and encourage the locals to pick fights against the Roman Empire. The desired outcome is continuous battles and warfare. Disgustingly, Beelzebub."

"That would have been a really great assignment to have about three centuries ago," Crowley said.

"Great?" Amy asked.

"Well. Easy. Potential for massive success, anyway. Beelzebub was a bit late on the draw on this one."

"Ah," Amy said. "Well, still. New place and a fresh start, that's always fun."

"Yeah," Crowley said. "Yeah, 'course. Great."

* * *

"Britain?" Aziraphale asked, holding her hands. Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale swallowed. "I see," he said. "Well, then. It's been lovely working with-- _against_ you all these years, Crowley. I wish you-- I-- Well. I hope you find contentment."

Crowley nodded, her own throat tight. "Maybe I'll stop by Rome sometimes," she said. "Give you some trouble."

"Well. Well, dear, if you're not going to be here anymore, there's no reason for me to stay. I'll head off to Constantinople, I should think."

"Ah. Yeah, Byzantine Empire. Lotta stuff for an angel to do there."

The eastern Roman Empire, where all of Aziraphale's assignments had been taking him, on longer and longer trips. It made sense. Realistically, he should have moved long ago, should have been in Greece this whole time, probably. A Roman dwelling hadn't made sense for him for centuries now. The fact they were both still living in the same city was a sad testament to their willingness to cling to familiarity over ideology. They had been prioritizing their personal lives over their work, their work that decides the fate of humanity, and that was wrong.

Aziraphale suddenly surged forward and clung to her, peppering her entire face with kisses. He lifted her sunglasses off and kissed her eyelids, which-- alright-- he had made a habit of doing far too often.

The styles had changed over the past three centuries, and not only was Crowley covered from neck to wrist in a baggy belted robe, but also sleeves were tighter now, ensuring that she truly _stayed_ covered from neck to wrist, in addition to the loose cape that almost obscured her entirely. Aziraphale kissed all the skin he could reach, leaving freckles all over the demon's face and neck, and then he took her hand and looked up to her eyes and raised it to his lips.

"I can't stay," she said.

"I wasn't--" But he was, wasn't he? He had kissed her hand, and he had asked and pleaded without using words. "I-- Last time, in the Ararat Mountains. We were still talking, and you just disappeared." And _God,_ his voice was high and creaky, choked with obvious tears. This was ridiculous. _He_ was ridiculous.

Should never have gotten so attached in the first place.

"Please don't do that again," he said. "I know, I know you said goodbye. But it was so sudden, Crowley, please don't disappear again like that. Please."

"Okay," she said. "I won't."

She wound a hand into his hair, slow and gentle, who ever heard of a gentle demon? And she pulled him forward, for one last, lingering kiss.

"Goodbye," she said.

"I'll see you again," Aziraphale said, firm and nervous at the same time.

Crowley nodded. "Of course."

She readjusted her walking stick, slung a bag of clothes and a skin of wine over her shoulder.

She walked out of Rome in the human way, her achy, unnatural legs protesting the whole way.

* * *

Crowley kept the freckles for 27 years, until the next time they were called down to Hell to listen to Ligur give a presentation on his great plan to trick Christians into thinking everyday sinful wrath and bloodlust could be righteous somehow.

They told themselves it didn't matter. Not like they could see the freckles anyway. Having them there or not having them there didn't affect them at all.

* * *

**Dyved, 452 AD**

Crowley had only spent a handful of decades as a homeless drunk on the Scottish Highlands before sobering up and getting his shit together to try and infiltrate the nobility. On the plus side, they had learned Common Brittonic by immersion by that point, and British Latin wasn't _that_ different from the common Vulgar Latin dialect they had spoken on the Italian peninsula-- though it seemed more and more that all these regional dialects of Vulgar Latin were getting different enough to almost be their own languages. But pretty much as soon as everything started falling into place, he was ordered to down to some kingdom in Wales and stir up trouble. Something about Christian kings. The bigwigs Down There wanted an unholy counterpart to them, some human wielding deep and impossibly old magic, someone who could inspire the humans back to their traditional roots and maybe towards rebellion or something. Whatever. Point is, they wanted a magical chaos agent.

Basically, Beelzebub was overcompensating for zyr earlier mistake with instructions, telling Crowley to have people fight off an imperial force that had already retreated. Now, the directions he received were perfectly suited to the time and culture, well-researched, and terribly, terribly specific.

Anxiety had sat thick in his core since Amy had read the instructions for him with a shaking voice.

He knew better than to try and appeal them, get them taken back or changed or foisted onto someone else. Than to insist that he wasn't an incubus, he had never agreed to this. Orders were orders.

Amy had hugged him for a long time, asked if he needed her to stay. He'd said no.

He really didn't want her here for this.

Crowley was currently posing as a minor noble in the royal court, which gave him easy access to influencing the local politics, and also had the added bonus of regular expected human contact. This was great, because it kept him abreast of the gossip, and offered easy temptation opportunities.

Not that Crowley had been told to tempt these people. But he was in a truly foul mood right now, and really, they all _wanted_ to sin, didn't they? They wanted to be tempted, so that they could blame the big bad demon, and then the onus of responsibility was no longer on themselves. _They_ hadn't sinned, the evil demon planted the thoughts in their head, and so it was his fault. Screw moral responsibility and everything Jesus said. They totally had to act on every idea that crossed their mind.

To be honest, Crowley had never tempted people in that manner before, actually giving them the ideas, planting little seeds of sin inside their mind and just watching what they do with it. But hey, he was a demon, and this was what demons did.

The royal court of Dyved was a hotbed of sin and indulgence and vice. Everyone blamed Satan and his demons, but nobody specifically realized it was Crowley.

The castle was having a bloody feast right now-- a minor celebration. The king and his party have just returned from a rather successful hunting trip. And so the feast consisted of thick-cut venison steaks for all, along with other local delicacies.

He swirled around the mysterious brown alcohol in his cup and wandered over to a woman he vaguely recognized. With the actual dinner done, now it was time for socializing, horror of horrors.

"Oi," he said. "Are you Gwenllian?"

"One of 'em, yeah," she said, putting a hand on her hip. "Why?"

"Are you the--" hiccup "--are you the Gwenllian that's gettin' married this spring?"

"Sure am. Why?"

"Would you like to not?"

She snorted. "I ain't marrying you."

"I never said anything about that! Would you just--" he leaned forward, in a way that was possibly inappropriate. "Would you like to tank your marriage and then disappear to the continent?"

Gwenllian's eyes narrowed, flicking around the banquet hall. She grabbed Crowley's arm and tugged him away to a more secluded area, nearly upsetting his drink and making him protest indignantly.

"You better start talkin', and start talking fast. Why do you want to ruin my wedding? If not to marry me yourself?"

"He-hear me out," he said. "A scandal. Gets all hushed up. Your father calls off the wedding and sends you away 'for your health.' You can stay on the continent, or come back in two years or so. Freedom. First time in your life, actual, real freedom," he said. "I'll fuck right off, you never have to see me again, promise. You'll have my word. _And!_ You won't have to marry that rich asshole your dad found."

Gwenllian stared at him suspiciously. "And what's in it for you? What's the catch? Why're you doing this?"

"I'd need you to have a child. My child."

She laughed. "They execute men for that! You're a damn fool."

"Can't execute me if you don't identify me."

"They'll execute _me!"_

Crowley waved a hand. "I can make that go away."

Gwenllian laughed and started walking away.

"Wait, wait--" Crowley forced himself to sober up as fast as he could, and _fuck,_ that hurt, that was one hell of a hangover, right there. "Watch. I can-- I can do things. In two seconds, everyone else in this room is going to find their food and drink replaced with worms."

Gwennllian paused, and Crowley snapped his fingers. The nobles screamed as their food transformed. Wine goblets were dropped all around the hall. Servants shrieked and let platters of food fall. The very crumbs of the plates had transformed into squirming, writhing masses of worms. People screamed and shouted and ran around, panicked at the malevolent magic at work.

Crowley and Gwenllian's goblets remained unchanged.

"And now," Crowley murmured. "It's all going to change back, and everyone's going to forget what happened."

There was a pause, as most people in the room stopped moving. Faces scrunched up in confusion. Servants picked up dropped dining ware, nobles pointed out shattered goblets and spilled wine. The crowd murmured, disoriented and confused.

Gwenllian watched the display in awe.

"What are you?" she asked.

Crowley turned away from the crowd and lowered his sunglasses just enough. Gwenllian's eyes grew even bigger, impossibly. "A demon," he said.

"And if I did this," she swallowed. "If I bore your child for you, and you gave me my freedom... I'd be selling my soul?"

"No," he said. "No, your soul doesn't factor into this at all. You won't be tainted or anything, you can still go to Heaven if you play your cards right. And, since this is such a big thing to ask, you can call on me anytime, day or night, for favors. Within reason, mind, I won't be granting you immortality or anything. But I guarantee you freedom, true freedom, to live any type of life you choose, beholden to no one. The only thing you'd be trading in this deal is your firstborn. After that, you won't be bothered by me or any other demon from Hell ever again."

"Why should I trust a demon?"

"Because my word is binding," he said. "Because a contract with a demon binds them down within their soul. My vow is worth more than this whole kingdom, Gwenllian, I can promise you that."

"And my protection?" she asked. "For calling on you, and whatnot? How do I do that?"

"I'll stay with you throughout the pregnancy and the nursing of the child, departing when they are weaned," he said. "And afterwards, I'll give you a feather from my wing. You can snap it to summon me. It's instant, requires no space or time or supplies, no chance of messing up the sigils or anything. Very efficient, and guaranteed to work."

Gwenllian went quiet. She looked out at the banquet hall, mostly cleaned up by now. The people had gone back to their usual business, and all but forgotten about the strange incident where everyone mysteriously dropped everything. Must have been an earthquake, some were saying.

Crowley watched as her eyes lingered on a handful of people in particular.

"Alright," she said. "I'll do it. My firstborn for my freedom." She grinned and looked Crowley up and down slowly. "Let's make a baby."

Crowley choked, lurching forward and sputtering. "Not like that!"

"What?"

"There's no need for-- I have magic, Gwenllian, we don't need to--"

"Well sure, _Viscount,_ but I didn't make a deal with a demon just to do the thing halfway."

Crowley gaped and increased his level of sputtering.

Gwenllian's expression transitioned from excited to disappointed.

"So you aren't one of those _fun_ demons, are you?"

"I am not an incubusss!"

"Alright, alright, and that's fair," she said. "But I'm just saying. It'd probably be more proper of you, as a demon, to fuck me. What is even the point of you, really, if you won't commit adultery with engaged young princesses, hmm?"

"I'm already stealing your firstborn," he snapped. "I don't need advice on how to be a demon from _you._ You can have as much sex as you want with whoever you feel like as soon as the child is conceived, alright? I have a job to do--"

"Yeah, _me."_

"Shhhhh!" he hissed. "Just because I can get us out of jail doesn't mean I want to have to."

She rolled her eyes. "My chambers are on the third floor," she said. "Very end of the main hall on the left. Meet me there tonight after all are sleeping, and you can do your boring magic thing then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: "British Celtic" swapped out for "Common Brittonic" which is what I actually meant. "Enochian" is now specifically "Low Enochian" because I think I'm hilarious


	6. 1.5 Centuries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what if.... we were both knights... and we kissed in the forest???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE PACE WILL PICK UP AFTER THIS I SWEAR. Everything important ever happened in the sixth century and I just have a lot to say. Time will literally move so much faster in the next chapter
> 
> I will be using Ganieda/Gwenddydd and Merlin/Emrys interchangeably. They're the same characters, it's just a difference of which language their name is in. Obviously Merlin and Ganieda are the more well-known versions but like. This is literally a Welsh legend, taking place in Wales, while they're all speaking (what isn't quite yet) Welsh. Also 'Ambrosius' is 'Merlin' in Latin, because Latin was also still a thing, and things needed to be more complicated
> 
> Ambrosius and Aurelius Ambrosius are different people! The first is Merlin, the second is a random king, and when I shorten /his/ name, it'll become Aurelius
> 
> ALSO I have decided that Aziraphale and Crowley will be frequently marrying each other in this fic. Credit for the original ideas on it to quillomens on tumblr, who gave me permission to use it. Mostly based on this post https://quillomens.tumblr.com/post/186553705183/okay-but-the-opposite-of-6000-years-of-pining with some obvious changes lol. I unfortunately could not find a single thing that came even close to mentioning that type of loyalty pledge between knights, so I've substituted a commendation ceremony in its place. I would have LIKED to have them both swear to each other in dual ceremonies, but Aziraphale is very much tied up in local politics at the time, and would be ritually killed if he tried. Also he's got hang ups akjdwjfla

**Dyved, 453**

Eight months later (a bit early, but Crowley was trying very hard to convince himself and Gwenllian not to worry), he was in a mud hut in the woods, listening to Gwenllian scream her head off and panicking.

He didn't know what the fuck was going on. The kid was already out, right? Crowley was literally holding her in his arms. So why was Gwenllian still screaming for the heavens?

And then he saw. More yellow light.

"Oh God," he said. "Oh-- Satan, oh fucking hell, oh Chr..."

He wracked his brain frantically, and then ended up just setting the baby down carefully, out of the way. He knelt back down with Gwenllian, ready to catch the next one.

He really hadn't planned on twins.

* * *

It was hours later.

The babies had been washed up and wrapped in cloths that Crowley had miracled into being much softer blankets. Crowley had helped Gwenllian into her bed, where she passed out for a few hours, and had now woken up, propping herself up with far more pillows than was common for hermits living in a hut in the woods to have.

"Two of 'em?" she asked.

Crowley nodded.

"Names?"

He laughed, a bit nervously. "They're more your kids than mine. You did all the heavy lifting, you should get to choose."

"Nah," she said. "Nah, remember? We made a deal. I am just a surrogate. Those are your kids, and you gotta name 'em."

He looked down at them, both little yellow-y blurs, one in each arm. The only way he could tell them apart was by staring into their souls, but he did that with everyone, these days. Humans tended to get mad when you forgot who they were, and it wasn't a good idea to not know which demons you were talking to.

So he looked into their souls a bit. His children.

"Ganieda," he said, of the girl, the one first-born. "And Merlin."

"Gwenddydd and Emrys," Gwenllian translated. "Don't you go letting them forget their roots. I want these children raised speaking Brittonic, you hear?"

He grinned up at her. "Always, Gwenllian. I'd never dare not."

* * *

**Dyved, 460**

The twins were seven now, and right in the peak phase to capitalize on their creepy half-demon twin thing. Their unsettling prophetic powers and limited sorcery abilities went a long way towards helping. Living alone in what was now a cottage in the woods with no visible parents really cemented the idea.

Gwenllian had been happily settled in a convent a few years back. Becoming a nun was about the only option available for women who wished to not marry a man, and to live with some semblance of autonomy. The other options were becoming a spinster, a brewster, or an old crone of a witch in the woods, owning land de facto by virtue of being able to scare off or destroy all who would try to take it.

But Gwenllian really fucking hated spinning, and all needlework, really, for that matter, so Crowley had transported her to a lovely little convent on the coast of Ephesus, and bam! Happily ever after. Gwenllian never has to interact with another man telling her what do again, she only has to answer to the Mother Superior, and as she's slick about it, she can wreak whatever mayhem she wants.

And, believe them, after spending over two years in a cramped sod hut together, Crowley knows exactly what sort of mayhem Gwenllian prefers.

But yeah, the local townspeople are thoroughly convinced that the children are cursed at the very least, if not outright fae or demonic in nature. They have hair as black as night and eyes of unblinking, glowing gold, just on this side of unnatural. They spoke in tandem, or unison, and they said strange things.

Local legend said they simply appear out of the woods sometimes, having no parents and no permanent dwelling.

This is not true, of course. Crowley finished building a perfectly lovely cottage years ago. It is simply heavily warded, unfindable for mortals, and no one who does happen upon it ever remembers its existence. Also, Crowley most definitely does live with their twins and raise them, and even go into town with them. Everyone always just constantly forgot that.

A safety measure, really. People didn't really understand the concept of single parents in this day and age. Especially single parents who had demonic children, hid their eyes under ancient Roman devices, and lived in a cursed cabin suspected to belong to another realm.

The twins were also horrible little demonic terrors that were a plague unto the town.

Crowley couldn't be prouder.

When they went to market, the whole square grew quiet. All eyes were on them, almost all pretending not to be. Merchants sold them wares as rapidly as possible, often flubbing the prices in the process.

Parents pulled their children away when they got too near.

Crowley eventually cast a miracle to make people forget their demonic reputations while they were in town, so that Gwenddydd and Emrys would be allowed to play with other children. Then it would all come slamming back into their minds as soon as they left.

And as fun as that was, it did come with occasional consequences.

There was a king known by the title of Vortigern, the Great Chief, and nothing else. He hadn't inherited the throne so much as manipulated a young prince-turned-monk-turned-king into giving him far too much power as an adviser, and then betrayed him and had him killed.

Vortigern then invited the Saxons over into Britain and married their leaders' daughter. This pissed everyone off.

The Picts had been encroaching, you see, and there was this ancient Celtic practice called celsine, where a weaker people entreats temporary help from a stronger nation.

It is possible that the Saxons (and the Angles, too) were unaware of celsine and how it worked.

But once you're the king who invited the Anglo-Saxons over into Britain, it's pretty much all you go down in history for, and most people decided to not consider Vortigern's motives at all due to the fact that he sucked.

Then Vortigern gave the Saxons a ton of power and land, and invited more over, and everyone got increasingly mad about it until one of Vortigern's own sons tried to raise an army to drive out all the fucking Saxons, who were immensely more powerful than the current British people and definitely going to conquer the place.

So then his mother poisoned him.

Anyway, after his wife had killed his son (not actually the most fucked up part of this story, but that is being left out), Vortigern decided to make peace between the two warring sides-- his people and all the Saxons he brought over. And then the peace meeting to devise a truce ended in a massacre, as it turns out all the Saxons brought long knives under their clothing.

A good sized chunk of Britain got conquered by the Saxons then. Who were led. By Vortigern's father-in-law.

So Vortigern fled to Wales in disgrace, fearing that angry peasants would murder him, and now he is Wales's problem. He is-- unfortunately-- continuing to be a chaotically evil idiot.

He's building a big-ass fort. It hasn't been going well.

Every night, the walls of the castle collapsed. So his advisers told him to find a boy with no father, kill him, and mix his blood into the mortar. The blood sacrifice would make the walls strong. 

And then, unfortunately, they found Merlin.

"A child for you, Vortigern," a meathead said. He lifted Merlin off the wagon by the back of his shirt, and dropped him before his leader. Merlin glared up at him defiantly.

Which wasn't very intimidating, coming from a seven-year-old.

"Excellent," the so-called 'mighty chief' said. "Do you understand why you're here, boy?"

"You were looking for a fatherless boy. Everyone's heard about it," he said. "And so you found me."

"Yes. How dreadful for you," he said. "But do you know why I was looking for a boy such as yourself?"

Merlin shook his head.

"We need your blood," he said. "To pour into the mixture of mortar, and to make the walls strong. You see, they keep collapsing every night. So my wonderful advisers here had a suggestion. They just need a bit more spirit. Your spirit, specifically."

"That's stupid."

"What?"

"You're dumb," Emrys said. "That won't fix things at all. You wanna know what's _really_ wrong with your wall?"

Dumbfounded, Vortigern nodded.

"You are not building on a solid foundation. There is a pool of water underneath, with two dragons sleeping in it, one white and one red. The walls of your castle collapse every night as they wake and do battle with each other."

Vortigern and his strong men looked at each other. They started laughing, slowly at first, then gaining steam.

Emrys's eye twitched.

The entire castle collapsed behind him. Mortar crumbled, stones rolled out of place, tumbling to the ground. The earth itself broke up, and out of it, two dragons rose.

One white and one red.

They started fighting.

* * *

Vortigern drew a cup to his lips, hands shaking. He and his men were gathered around a fire, in the woods a good distance from the ruined construction site. Most had stood frozen during the battle. Some had run off. Some had wet themselves.

But it was over now, and the dragons were gone, and they were gone, and they had this nice bright fire and alcohol. It wasn't enough to make the woods seem totally safe. But it certainly helped.

"What-- What are you?" Vortigern asked.

Merlin looked at him with too-bright golden eyes. "A kid."

Vortigern knocked back his cup.

"You will call me Ambrosius," Emrys said. "It's one way to name me."

"And is it a true name?"

"Not in the way that you mean," he said. "But it is accurate."

One of the larger men crossed himself and muttered something, a curse or a prayer.

"I came here for a reason," Merlin said. "Not just to mess with you. My parent knows I'm here, don't worry."

Vortigern absolutely worried about that statement.

"I'm here to tell you some proffee-ys."

"Prophecies?"

Emrys nodded eagerly. "I wanna be a politician when I grow up, only that's not a thing here, so I shall be an adviser to kings. And you should know what's going to happen. So you can be smarter." He frowned.

"Alright, Ambrosius," he said. "Tell me what I should know."

"The red dragon is the Britons," Merlin said. "And the white dragon the Saxons. Future kings-- not yourself-- will drive the Saxons out of the country. The Boar of Cornwall will be the one to finish this. And for six generations, his descendants will rule. But someday, the Saxons will be back. They will have a final victory, and rule over the kingdom, as the white dragon had final victory over the red."

* * *

Vortigern hanged all of his old advisers for being shitty at their jobs, and then made Merlin his new chief adviser, despite still being a child. He finished his castle, now that the mystery of the foundation was solved.

However, that young king that Vortigern had tricked and killed earlier, Constans, had had two brothers. These brothers had initially been the sole descendants considered for the throne, and would have inherited it straight off the bat if Vortigern hadn't gone out of his way to manipulate things otherwise.

And so they raised a large army and marched from Brittany, on a mission to kill Vortigern and then drive out all the Saxons.

And when the castle was burning, Vortigern shrieked and screamed betrayal, demanding to know why Merlin hadn't warned him, why his own personal prophet had stayed silent on this.

Emrys said nothing. Just looked at him, with those terrible eyes, the last thing Vortigern saw.

Emrys walked out of the burning castle, and the flames moved out of the way for him.

He walked straight up to the head of the army that encircled the place, finding the royal chariot easily. At least a dozen arrows notched as he approached, but the heir raised his hand to stay them.

Merlin looked at both the brothers before focusing on Aurelius Ambrosius specifically, a man who had a grand name, but didn't quite fit the label. Merlin nodded, and then knelt to the ground on one knee, head bowed. "Long live the king."

* * *

**Wessex, 469**

Merlin told King Aurelius to drag blue stones in off the top of Mount Killaraus all the way in _Ireland_ and refused to explain why, but they needed it to build the Giant Circle.

Merlin also refused to explain why they needed a Giant Circle. But he did help move the stone with his magic, though, so it was alright.

Still a heck of a long trip.

And if no one but Emrys and maybe a few select others ever truly understand why Stonehenge was built, well, that was his business.

* * *

**Wessex, 478**

Emrys was taking a load off, laying down in the soft grass and looking up at the night sky. Uther was also there-- the king's younger brother.

"When I was little," he said. "My parent would take me and my sister outside, and we would find a hill and go lay on it, out in the open. And they'd point at the stars, and tell us all about them. It was my favorite thing. They told the best stories."

"You have parents?" Uther asked, shocked.

"Just the one," he said, and Uther frowned. "A comet is about to pass. Watch."

Sure enough, a comet streaked across the sky, its tail doing weird whippy things that kinda made it look like a dragon.

"Your brother is dead," Merlin said.

 _"What?!"_ Uther shot up.

"No, no, sit back down. It's too late now. Poison's already done its work."

"Why didn't you say something earlier?!"

"I see the future, Uther. It's just sad if you try to prevent it," he said. "Anyway, the dragon will be a symbol of your reign, and you will come to be known as King Uther Pendragon."

* * *

**The Forest of Calidon, 500**

Crowley stirred soup in a large pot. The cottage's floor was made of miracled bedrock-- nothing else would do. Roman concrete was great and all, but then you had to go to the effort of mixing and setting it, and really, if she was going to need to use miracles anyway, she may as well do the easy and surefire thing.

Contrary to what local legend would tell you, the cottage was not a tower. It was simply a cottage, and it happened to have high ceilings, and a roof that was maybe a bit more steep and Gothic than the locals were used to. It was still just a one-story cottage, though.

Floating in the center of a lake deep in the woods.

Ganieda had very specific tastes. She had really grown into herself, as a sorceress. Crowley was very proud of her.

The door opened, and Merlin stepped in, grinning as Temeselo padded over on black paws to have his head scratched. Emrys scooped up the cat, closing the door behind him.

"Hello," Crowley greeted. "Have a safe trip?"

Her son nodded. "As ever. Where's Gwenddydd?"

"She's in the attic, fetching more carrots and herbs, I ran out." This statement was accompanied by loud thumps and thuds. Ganieda appeared at the trapdoor, climbing down the ladder carefully with an over-full basket slung over one shoulder. She hopped down, dropped the basket a few feet from the fire, and hugged her brother.

"Emrys!" she said. She pulled back immediately. "It's been _five years."_

"There was stuff!"

"What kind of stuff?"

 _"Stuff-_ stuff. Royal stuff. You wouldn't understand." He tossed his head back to flick dark hair over his shoulder. Gwenddydd rolled her eyes.

"Causing trouble?" Crowley asked.

"Um. A few weeks ago, Sir Anoeth pissed me off, so I made it so he could only speak in the language of the Angles for a week. People have a lot of opinions about it. None of them have anything to do with me, though, so it's fine," he said. "Oh! And a visiting Burgundian marquess was quite rude to the servants, and _everyone_ lower in status than him, really, so now his hair is a very bright shade of pink and he smells like rotten eggs and farts, permanently, to everyone."

"Excsssellent." Crowley grinned. "Those who lord their power over those without it _always_ deserve a little humiliation. Serves him right. Sometimes humans seem to get so caught up in their titles it's like they forget they're all the same thing."

Merlin grinned, and gave Temeselo a kiss, who was still being held and quite content about it.

"I'm doing stuff too," Ganieda said, in a way that was not at all casual. "I'm teaching witchcraft and medicine to the local women. Also I've been causing visions of great magic to appear to those with open hearts and minds."

"And you're doing wonderful, my little terror, I couldn't be prouder. Centuries from now, you will be the most revered sorceress and wizard who ever lived." She gave Ganieda a one-armed hug and a kiss on the top of her head.

Merlin mumbled something.

The twins had always been fairly competitive when it came to their magic. Merlin was more well-known among the people, due to his work in the court, but Ganieda had personally inspired at least ten different legends so far about trickster sorceresses in the woods. She was going to end up in as many legends and fairy tales as Merlin would, just, Crowley suspected, without credit.

They'd had this little tradition since the children were little. They'd get together and have a little feast on the solstices and equinoxes. Not for any pagan reason, really, but mostly because that was the most reliable method of time-keeping and Crowley had a personal vendetta against the idea of using the Christian calendar.

But _some wizards_ were in the bad habit of skipping it altogether, and making their mother sad.

Really, he rarely called. And Crowley understood that his job was very important to him, and he was the Seer of Wessex and the most trusted adviser to the past three successive kings, but really. Was it so much to ask for him to drop by a few times a year?

To be clear, Crowley did not consider herself as having adopted paganism, because she absolutely would not ever in a billion years venerate any gods (and knew for a fact that at least a dozen gods had demons running around impersonating them), and she also didn't know jack shit about paganism beyond the very basics. She knew that the Earth was something sacred, that it and its beings must be cared for, and that the common pagan holidays were pretty cool. The celebrating of them had happened mostly by accident. It started out as a simple calendrical thing, a good way of setting a date and keeping it, and then, well. They were already getting the whole family together for a big meal. May as well go all out.

Plus Beltane. Beltane was fun and flowers were nice. Crowley didn't have to justify herself.

If she happened to do spring cleaning around Imbolc, that was because everybody else did too and it was a convenient timely reminder.

Crowley tended to drink and avoid town on Samhain.

This was besides the point. The point was that Emrys was a little shit who never came home for the holidays, but now he was here, and it was Yule.

"Oh, wait right here," she said. "I forgot, I got a little gift for you five years ago and never gave it to you, because you didn't show up. It's in the trunk-- Gwenddydd, can you stir the stew for a few minutes? Thanks."

Crowley handed the big spoon over and picked up her cane-- not necessary for direction, in this environment, but definitely for support, after standing up so long.

The twins were whispering to each other, but she ignored that, kneeling down slowly in front of the trunk and popping it open. Her hand went to where she knew the gift was, and only a bit of digging produced the necklace.

She pushed off the ground and walked stiffly over to her son, his soul a glowing yellow. Human-- on the surface. Apparently all hybrids had human-appearing souls, no matter how decidedly un-human they are.

"A charm," she said. "Keep you safe from occult forces. Hide you from other demons and their children. I've been hearing about your adventures; the last thing you need is to get killed fighting a cambion or a hellhound or something. Bloody pointless."

"What about you?" Emrys asked.

"What about me?"

"Will you be able to find me?" he asked. "If I put this on? It won't hurt or repel _you,_ will it?"

She waved a hand. "Nah. Got a bit of my own magic in it. Not too much, of course, that'd do the opposite of what you want, but the charm'll listen to me. It's fine," she said. "Your sister's the one who really made it. You should thank her."

"Thanks."

Gold light jerked and tilted. "All I did was lace it together, basically. Wasn't my project."

Crowley shook her head, but she was almost certain Gwenddydd was invisibly contradicting her, that traitor.

"Thank you," Merlin said loudly. "I'll keep it on me always. Now, is the stew done? Because the smell of the roast has been making me hungry since I walked in here, and I want to eat."

* * *

**Wessex, 537**

There had been reports lately, of a band of rogue knights terrorizing the land, led by their unscrupulous dark master, the Black Knight. These rapscallions had committed acts of thievery and mayhem far and wide. They have let loose livestock, they have had drunken revelries in the dead of night with loud music, they have desecrated holy structures, they have reportedly dyed all of a local lady's clothing bright scarlet (likely with blood), and they have robbed countless nobles blind, only to toss their bounty into the street as they fled past villages in the night. Chaos for the sake of chaos, truly.

Arthur had been king for ten years now, crowned by destiny at the tender age of fifteen, in large part due to the prophecies and influences of the court's top adviser, Merlin. Aziraphale had only been on this little island for twelve years. A while back, the Eastern Roman Empire became a meaningless title, no longer having a Western Roman Empire as a counterpart, and so people were starting to call it the Byzantine Empire instead. And something about that seemed to shake Aziraphale (which was stupid, and he knew it), and he felt very lost and alone and a far bit more helpless than was warranted for a being of his powers.

Like a leaf tossed about in the water, moving to its whims with no control, and no constants. Entirely alone and static and so redundant as to be antique, in an ever-changing world.

See. He hadn't felt alone, before. He had gone long periods without contacting Crowley before, even after extended time together. After that lovely idyllic time raising their little village of orphans on the Ararat Mountains, they had gone 422 without seeing each other again, and Aziraphale doesn't know what it says about him that he knows the exact number. He does know that turning to see Crowley gone had wrenched a hole in his gut. That staying on the mountain to watch over the blossoming civilization had been a special kind of hell to do alone, as the children grew old and died one by one, as he became a forgotten relic of no use to anyone, until-- finally-- he became a threat. Heaven ordered him to mix up their languages in the valley of Shinar, to halt their progress, to rend their civilization into pieces and send them all scattering.

He had felt _evil._ Heartbroken. A cog in a machine he wasn't sure was actually doing the right thing here, but it wasn't his place to say that, to question, and Crowley was nowhere around to do it for him and help him pick up the pieces.

And that wasn't a fair expectation to have at all. Which Aziraphale knew. Of course.

And then the next time they saw each other was in the ruins of Sodom, where Crowley was faultlessly kind and comforting and gentle, but then turned around and said something despicable, and Aziraphale had avoided them for 2593 years, being icy and antagonistic when contact couldn't be helped. A proper angelic adversary. Not that anyone in Heaven had seen it that way. No, the archangels thought-- despite everything-- that he needed to be closely watched and give frequent reports to Gabriel personally, something no other angel had to do.

Technically, _dominions_ are the management angels meant to be in charge of guiding and directing all the angels of lower Choirs. Not one of the bloody seraphim capable of standing before God Herself.

There are thousands of archangels. Unfortunately, that word simply means angels-in-charge-of-other-angels, so it is frequently applied to the seraphim, the highest ranking of them all. So what has happened is that there are archangels (thousands, second lowest rank) and Archangels (actually seraphim but bad at planning and words, apparently).

When Gabriel calls himself an archangel, he means that he is one of currently three beings alive capable of standing before the throne of God without dying as his mind tries to process Her glory. When Sandalphon calls himself an archangel, however, he means that he's in charge of 100 malakhim-- Heaven's foot soldiers.

Aziraphale, as a principality, has twelve archangels and all of their subsequent malakhim in his platoon.

But, anyway. Enough about Heaven. The point was, Aziraphale had never truly felt lonely before. Miserable, yes. Obviously. Alone, of course, as a state of being. But that was simply how it was. It was a fact of life, the matter of course for an immortal among mortals, that you walked the world alone. Aziraphale had had no true conception of the idea of loneliness, having never really known anything different.

Sure, he had tentatively gotten used to the idea of company during those glorious twenty-two years after the Flood. While looking over his shoulder constantly, and with keen awareness that Crowley was a demon and that it would all end someday soon, as a temporary arrangement from the start.

But that had been nothing compared to four centuries of living in each other's pockets in Rome, of easy companionship and understanding, of kisses and affection and forgetting about everything else. It had seemed so endless, and, in a way, it had been. Four centuries was a long time. Long enough to get so comfortable and used to something.

Long enough that Crowley walking away had finally taught Aziraphale the meaning of loneliness, after over four _thousand_ years of existence.

He had gone to Constantinople and listlessly aided to establishment of Christianity. It appeared that the divide of the Eastern and Western Roman Empires had extended into their practice of Christianity, and Aziraphale should probably care more about keeping things true to core across the board, but he really couldn't bring himself to. He made token efforts. He performed noble miracles for important leaders of the faith. He was a scribe for about a hundred years, copying texts over and over until his eyes glazed over, despite not even needing sleep, but apparently everyone eventually needed a goddamn break once in a while.

But it had been 127 years now, and he thought himself sufficiently numb to that pesky loneliness Crowley had left in his heart, so when the order had come in to influence a young crown prince up in Britain, Aziraphale had thought it would be fine. It had been so long, after all. Even if Crowley was still up on this particular island, they had been sent to the far north of it, and Aziraphale's assignment was decidedly in the south.

It was fine. Aziraphale was handling this, in a way that was mature and emotionally stable and not at all pathetic. An angel needed only the love of the Lord and the Host. He should not even _speak_ to a demonic apostate, much less actively desire to.

No. Aziraphale didn't care about Crowley whatsoever. He only cared about God, and doing Her will, as he was so directed by the archangels.

He had spent twelve years directing young Arthur into becoming a humble and noble Christian king, one he could feel proud having sworn fealty to, and now he would dispatch this Black Knight character and return peace to the land.

"Hello?" he called out. This was rumored to be the right place, the treacherous camp of the band of knaves, but who could tell through all the fog? "I, Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round, am here to speak to the Black Knight."

Some crouched over figure in rags appears, unkempt and covered in filth. Not that this distinguished him from any other member of the peasantry whatsoever.

"Oh, right. Um... Hello," Aziraphale said pleasantly.

"Yeah, come," the thief said, gesturing him over.

"I-I was hoping to meet with the Black Knight?" he said, following. This was almost certainly a trap.

Aaaand, yep, he was in the center of their camp now, surrounded by rogues who appeared out of the mist.

"You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one." The voice was distorted, falsely deepened, and muffled through the helmet. Aziraphale frowned. "But you have found your death."

"Is that you under there, Crowley?"

He lifted his visor, revealing familiar yellow snake eyes and a face that was-- really-- far more handsome than it was in memory.

"What the hell are you playing at?" Aziraphale asked.

"It's alright, lads. I know him. He's alright," Crowley called over his shoulder. His gang of criminals and hooligans dispersed. "I'm here spreading foment."

"What is that, some kind of porridge?" What fresh hell kind of mischief is that? What, is it on a field somewhere? People's houses, perhaps? A church, like that really quite despicable graffiti he found? Oh, this is just like the countess with all her clothes dyed red, Aziraphale should have known Crowley was the Black Knight all along--

"No. I'm, you know, fomenting dissent and discord. King Arthur's been spreading too much peace and tranquility in the land, so I'm here, you know, fomenting."

"Right. Well, I'm meant to be fomenting peace," Aziraphale said, with all the false confidence of someone who has no clue if he's using that word correctly.

He wasn't, for the record. But in fairness, the only example he had to go by was Crowley, and Crowley couldn't have been more wrong with how he used it. So here we have two idiots, throwing the word 'foment' back and forth, very obviously having no clue what it means.

"So we're both working very hard in damp places and just cancelling each other out?" Crowley asked.

"Well, you could put it like that," Aziraphale said. "It is a bit damp."

"Be easier if we both stayed home. If we just sent messages back to our head offices saying we'd done everything they'd asked for, wouldn't it?"

"But that would be lying."

"Eh, possibly, but the end result would be the same. Cancel each other out."

"But, my dear fellow... well, they'd check! Michael's a... bit of stickler," he said. And she _had_ been there, for his last performance review. Gabriel alone was already far more than overkill, but Michael as well... Well, Aziraphale just wished they would tell him what he had _done._ "You don't want to get Gabriel upset with you."

He shuddered to even think about it. No other angel was under this staggering level of oversight. It couldn't be just that he hadn't come up to Heaven for a while, especially given that he stayed perfectly up to date on all his reports in that time. And even if it was just that... even then...

Why did he need to be watched so much more closely than any other angel? What about him raised such an alarm of suspicion without him even knowing? Was there something being said about him, among the Host? Had his character been called into question somehow?

With these restrictions on him now, he didn't dare imagine the consequences if he _actually_ stepped out of line.

"Our lot have better things to do than verifying compliance reports from Earth. As long as they get the paperwork, they seem happy enough. As long as you're seen to be doing something, every now and again--"

"No!" he shouted, heart pounding. "Absolutely not! I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing. We're not having this conversation, not another word."

He walked away, true to his point.

"Right," Crowley said quietly.

"Right!" Aziraphale shouted backwards.

* * *

The humans say, or will say, or have said, that a frog put in a pot of water set to a slow heat would never notice the danger until it was already boiling alive. And maybe this is true, or maybe it isn't. It's a useful metaphor regardless.

Because angels can sense love. And for four hundred years, Aziraphale was in a pot of love set to a slow simmer. Maybe there was a bit before, maybe he had detected a strong whiff of something-- more platonic than not-- and written it off entirely, forgetting it even. But.

While in Rome, Crowley's love had apparently grown to a raging boil unnoticed, and then he left, and took the sense of love with him, also unnoticed. Crowley was just Crowley, all the parts of him were tied together in Aziraphale's mind, one big knot of perceptions that can never be untangled. Crowley is red hair and black clothes and a purr of a voice that he likes to do ridiculous things with. He is pale, freckled skin and the crisp tang of cold and sulfur. He's made of curiosity and sarcasm and the overwhelming sense of love. Crowley is a gnarled old cane and good wine in the evenings and bad jokes mixed in with philosophical debates, and all of these are just facts. That's all just who Crowley is, and Aziraphale appreciates it without analyzing it.

Why would he?

So yes, he was unaware of the staggering love until he found Crowley again and it hit him in the face with the approximate delicacy of a brick. And also it felt familiar.

Familiar enough to recognize Crowley through a helmet, a disguised voice, and a dawning sense of horror.

And _yes,_ maybe he had been a touch defensive and nonsensical, but he felt a great deal defensive and nonsensical, so really he was toning it down. The fact that their conversation had been an argument gave him the perfect excuse to turn right around, get back on his horse, ride back to the castle, and eat his feelings while also getting spectacularly drunk.

Or, as drunk as one could get anyway, in this terrible era with only foul alcohols and medicinal beer.

* * *

**Wessex, 541**

In the past four years alone, Sir Aziraphale has encountered the Black Knight _thirty-four times._

Now. This is an absurd amount of battles, in what is supposed to be a peaceful kingdom. When Aziraphale swore loyalty to King Arthur, what he mostly pictured for the job was patrolling the border, riding around on a big horse with intimidating armor, settling disputes within villages so as to uphold the law. Also dealing with that thing with the Saxons, and also the Angles. That was a big part of it, but it was done now, so it should just be all about _maintaining_ peace.

Unfortunately, Crowley had been sent here to stir up trouble.

Currently, the only trouble around was strictly between Aziraphale and Crowley themselves. Which was going to look terrible on both of their reports.

Crowley's stupid "arrangement" proposal looked better and better each day.

But Aziraphale would not be overcome. No. He was going to stand firm. He had morals. Integrity. He was an _angel._

Also, Crowley fucking sucked at swordfighting, and he was going to have to accept that one of these days.

Not to mention that the past few years had unremittingly sucked, on a broad spectrum, for almost everyone currently stuck on the hellscape that was Planet Earth. A mysterious fog had covered the land for over a year and a half (five years ago), making the sun seem dim and cold, and all the crops had been repeatedly failing because of it, causing widespread famine. It was said that the whole planet was afflicted, and there was some new terrible outbreak of plague in Egypt that was sweeping through the Eastern Roman Empire, and after several shouting matches over swordfights, Aziraphale and Crowley had determined that neither Heaven nor Hell was responsible for this mess-- the Earth just did that sometimes (though both sides were blaming the other and taking credit themselves, depending on who you asked).

Crowley's intel from Hell was sketchy and mostly limited to atrocities and complaints from planet-bound demons, but Aziraphale had gotten a hold of a full Heavenly report on the subject. Apparently a bunch of volcanoes had gone off, creating the apocalyptic nuclear-winter ash cloud. It wasn't the whole planet, as it seemed-- merely Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. Which... Well.

The report was thorough. Many had been killed by the direct effects of the "fog." Many others would die slower of health problems they had unwittingly acquired, many more had become despondent from the lack of sunlight, of warmth and proper food, the deaths of their loved ones-- This particular bout of plague was projected to spread until near everyone had caught it and near half had died of it, but only in the Eastern Roman Empire, so it wasn't--

Things were bad. Things sucked. Nothing good at all had happened in _years,_ and every day sucked worse than the last. Aziraphale was just... so _sick of this._

He had thought seeing Crowley again after their century apart would be a good thing. In reality, it was just another (massive) frustration on top of an already mounting pile. Plus, the moral dilemma of the demon's love for him, which made him feel weird and guilty.

Aziraphale saw the gleam of dark armor approaching, and rolled his eyes, stifling a groan.

He was alone this time, and so was Crowley. A tiny flicker of hope sparked in his chest. Maybe they could just pretend not to see each other and part ways. It wouldn't be fraud, like Crowley proposed, because they wouldn't be reporting false success, and yes, it was obvious they were both quite active in the area, but they had so many other reports going out on vicious battles with high frequency, so surely one day without one was... nothing, really.

"You know," Crowley said. "We don't have to fight."

Aziraphale beamed. "That's precisely what I was thinking! I am hungry; I want to go home."

"No, no, I meant ever."

"Ugh, Crowley, we already said ev--"

"No no, hear me out! What if I swore fealty to you?"

Aziraphale paused. That couldn't be right. "What?"

"A commendation ceremony, me to you, right here in this forest," he said. "Part of the oath literally says I can't hurt you. Isn't binding on anyone else, though, is it? Your holy Round Table knights and my merry men can still fight as often as they damn well please, and we can sit out. It'd be unchivalrous to harm one of your own men, right? Someone who's sworn fealty to you? Downright unbecoming of a knight, that is. Put you more in line with my guys. So I couldn't fight you, and you couldn't fight me, but real, honest battles between our two sides are still taking place."

"...You're a genius." He huffed a laugh. "Do take off your helmet, dear boy, I want to kiss you."

(As Aziraphale had been kissing Crowley since before he fell in love with him, he felt no reason to stop doing so now. He wasn't going to make it weird if Crowley wasn't, and Crowley clearly wasn't even talking about it. Plus, a local custom is a local custom. Just because no one else at all would consider it rude to skip this form of greeting does not that Aziraphale-- as an angel-- cannot go above and beyond for the sake of manners.)

Crowley swung off his horse, lifting his visor and already grinning as Aziraphale did the same. Kissing, as it turns out, is extremely awkward while wearing full suits of armor. It ended up being mostly clangs of metal and giggles more than anything.

"Ah, and they say that Britain isn't Roman anymore," Crowley teased.

"What are you talking about? Holy kisses are a--"

"Don't call it a holy kiss!"

"--Christian notion, done in churches, every service--"

"--So many other names for it, and you chose the worst one--"

"--Though I'll admit it has its roots in Middle Eastern and Mediterranean culture, but a kiss of peace has--"

"Kiss of peace! Right there! Kiss of peace, not any-- bloody--"

"--Been well established among Christians for six centuries now."

He sealed Crowley's still-sputtering lips with another peck, brief and chaste. The demon was a bit red in the face.

"Meet me back here at midnight," he said. "Bring three of your men, I'll bring three of mine. Witnesses."

"They aren't my men," Aziraphale said. "They belong to the king. None of them have sworn oaths to me."

"Yeah," Crowley said. "Neither have mine."

* * *

The moon was high in the sky and full tonight, shining glimmers of silver down on everything. Bright as day, almost, casting nighttime shadows in that strange way the moon did sometimes. The forest, as always, was cold and damp and full of the sounds of bugs. Also clanking armor and men's breathing, but that was just from Aziraphale's perspective.

He stepped into the clearing and gasped.

Crowley and his cohorts were already there. The humans lurked on the fringes of the clearing, as they should be, but Crowley stood out in the open. Bareheaded, as the ceremony demanded, hair in soft waves just past his shoulders. Eyes blessedly uncovered and with no weapon in sight-- again, as ceremony demanded-- but still in full shining dark armor otherwise. The moonlight shone down, illuminating every feature, every line, in perfect detail.

"Sir Aziraphale, are you sure about this?" Sir Kay asked. "Those eyes... And combined with red hair-- I've heard things--"

"I'm sure," he said. "I have all the input I need. Stay right here."

He strode forward, meeting Crowley in the middle.

Crowley dropped to his knees, eyes fixed on Aziraphale. He clasped his hands together and raised them up, stretching towards him. Total submission, entreaty to a higher power. Aziraphale wrapped his own hands around Crowley's, the sign of superiority.

"I wish to become your man," Crowley said, slightly wry, because some demons here just _had_ to be inappropriate, didn't they?

"I accept," Aziraphale said. Solemnly. As befit the occasion.

The act of homage was complete. Next was Crowley's oath of fealty.

Aziraphale let go of him and drew out his sword, holding it flat between his hands. It wasn't the flaming sword from Eden, and it wasn't holy, and frankly, he was grateful. He wouldn't let Crowley anywhere near it if it was.

Crowley placed his own hands over top it, in perfect counterpoint to Aziraphale's. "I swear, on all that I hold sacred, and before all who witness my words, that for the future forevermore I shall be faithful to my lord, and only unto him. I shall never raise my hand against him nor harm him in any way. I shall observe my homage to him faultlessly, and let no other rise between."

Aziraphale's mouth felt dry. He made a tiny gesture, and Crowley's hands lifted off, allowing him to resheathe the sword safely. He found something in him unsettled with the sight of Crowley, on his knees, unarmed, with Aziraphale's sword at the same level as his throat and really far too close.

It seemed prophetic.

It probably was.

He helped his enemy to his feet with shaking hands.

* * *

**Heaven, 553**

It was just Gabriel this time.

It wasn't a relief.

The room was huge, and empty, and cold, with floor-to-ceiling windows. Spacious. Stark white.

No. A clean, crisp, pure white. A good white, that wasn't blinding, and only had to do with death in a good way.

The table and chairs were blockish stainless steel, and Aziraphale could admit they were uncomfortable, because they were meant to be.

"So, Principality Aziraphale." Gabriel smiled. He didn't have much practice at it. "Well, I could read this file here, but I'd like to hear it from you in your own words. What have you accomplished this past century?"

His stomach plummeted.

As if he wasn't already thrumming with anxiety to begin with.

"Well," he said. "To start with, I influenced and encouraged the invention of the illuminated manuscript. An illuminated manuscript is a form of writing contained in a book-- sort of like a set of scrolls, all cut up and bound together. The... pages, the cut-up parts of scrolls-- are bound with heavy leather, very carefully. And combined with the way parchment lasts, these will be able to hold up against wear, humidity, light-- anything, really. I expect the majority of them to be preserved for centuries, if not millennia."

"What's the point?" Gabriel asked. "How does that benefit Heaven?"

"W-well, you see, the majority of illuminated manuscripts are holy texts! Or his-historical accounts. But you see, the way humans conceptualize history, it's--" He swallowed. "All of it is moral tales and parables, designed to teach lessons. To educate in more ways than one."

Gabriel's face was like stone.

"And! And, and, I've been copying the Bible. Mhmm, the Hebrew-Aramaic parts and the modern Greek parts. It all gets written down in Classical Latin, of course, which is the language of education. All who can read, can read Latin," he said. He drew in a fortifying breath. "Since last report, I have completed twenty-four different illuminated manuscripts."

"Only twenty-four?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Y-yes," he said. "You see, it takes multiple years-- usually humans work--"

"It doesn't matter," he said. "What else have you done?"

Aziraphale gave a weak smile, and he thought of that particular team of three dedicated monks who worked day in and day out on a single manuscript that took twenty years to complete, with nothing else done during that time. He thought of that time he had gone three years without taking a break to even rest his hand, much less his eyes.

He steadfastly pushed those thoughts away.

"As per my orders, I relocated to the Kingdom of Wessex twenty-eight years ago. I was able to immediately install myself as a knight of the royal court by pledging allegiance to King Uther, who died sh--"

"You pledged allegiance to a human?"

"I-I, uh, ye-yes. It was necessary, to-to become a knight. Standard procedure. It doesn't truly mean anything. Just- just that I will not betray him or raise a hand against him. My first and only true loyalty is to God, of course."

"And Heaven."

"And Heaven." He nodded. "Any... And. Hm. I believe I was a formative influence on the child Arthur Pendragon. I made a habit of speaking to him about kindness and faith, and the duties of a king, while serving as one of his father's knights. This association continued when the child took the throne two years later, and I continued to serve in an advisory capacity to him even as a knight. Arthur went on to become a famously wise and just king, attentive to the needs of his people, and an upstanding example of Christian morality. He is widely regarded to have been blessed by God. His reign has been marked by--" a series of shocking betrayals and so much unnecessary drama, I mean, really, a _love quadrangle?_ Aziraphale was not a bloody relationship counselor. Young people these days. "--peace throughout the land."

"Uh-huh. And how long has Arthur been reigning?"

"Twenty-eight years now."

"So that would make him...?"

"Forty-three."

"How long do humans live again?"

"...Well, see, that's a tricky question, because the average life expectancy is--"

"How long?"

"--Thirty, but most of them never live past five, and those who do... they last longer. Most get a good fifty to sixty years in."

This was an exaggeration, and Arthur was an old man.

"Yeah, you're telling me. You have any idea how many baby souls get sent up here for judgement? It's like we're running a daycare. Had to add a whole new level, redirect a full million malakhim to watch over them. And it's not like the malakhim were doing anything important before that, but still," he said. He looked Aziraphale over. "I mean, you know what I'm talking about."

He nodded. He absolutely did not know.

Gabriel waved a hand, picking up his quill to fill out a form that had appeared. "You're free to go. See you in another hundred years, Principality."

He stood up too fast and hurried out of the room.

He was positively scurrying down the hall when someone called out, "Hey! Aziraphale! Over here!"

He looked up, and there was Hahasiah, along with a crowd of other principalities, arm raised in greeting and beaming.

* * *

Aziraphale hadn't even known Heaven _had_ lounges. They had to be new.

"And it's just like, we gotta stick together, ya know?" Poyel said, braiding Nilhael's hair.

Or possibly Nanael's. Aziraphale honestly wasn't sure which of them was which.

"Like. We're the only angels with permanent Earth assignments. The _only_ ones! No one else gets how hard it is. They try, but they just don't get it," Poyel continued. Vehuel murmured her agreement.

"Every angel has a specific demon to fight," Mehaiah said. "But not every angel has to spend the majority of their time on Earth and risk running into them every day."

The other principalities hummed and nodded, mostly, demurring.

"And you know, not every adversarial match is made equal," Hahasiah said. "And they can't be, ya know? Hell doesn't have the same structure. And yeah, sometimes there are pretty even matches, like Satan and Michael, but on the other hand, you get pairs like Yasariah, who's just a random dominion, matched up with _Prince Asmodeus."_

"And demons all talk to each other, too," Daniel said. "They hold grudges. Like what happened with Jelial. His adversary used to be Agares, and well, after over 4000 of fighting, he finally caught him. Got stuck in a devil's trap. Guess he wasn't exactly one of Hell's _smartest_ demons, but still. Anyway, Jelial realizes the trap went off, goes over there, kills Agares-- like _kills-_ kills, not discorporated-- and less than a month later, he's got a new adversary assigned. Adrammelech. He's apparently Chancellor of Hell and President of the Demonic Senate and also in charge of Satan's wardrobe? I guess? That's a very pretentious title for someone who might just be Hell's tailor."

Imamiah snorted.

Daniel grinned. _"Anyway,_ like I was saying, demons hold grudges. Jelial's new adversary is Adrammelech, but apparently ol' Agares had this best buddy down in Hell named Vassago, and Vassago has made it his personal mission to capture Jelial and torture him to death. They aren't even enemies! Not formally, anyway. So now Jelial's gotta be thwarting this super-important Adrammelech guy, _and_ watching his back 'cause he's on Vassago's kill list. But Jelial's not a principality. So he's just been hiding out in Heaven, perfectly safe."

Imamiah shook her head, tucking a braid behind her ear.

"...Now," Aziraphale said hesitantly. "I think I might have misunderstood something. I thought we had a bit of a ceasefire going on with Hell. 'Til the end of the world, of course. Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't murdering a demon violate the terms?"

"Nah," Nanael said. "Not in the course of regular business. Anything that happens down on Earth is fair game. And it's not like demons hesitate to kill angels."

"Yeah," Daniel said. "Always remember, guys: keep something holy on you _at all times_ down there. I've been masquerading as a priest, and I always have a little flask of holy water. I haven't seen Furcas in 1400 years, but better safe than sorry."

"It only takes one mistake," Vehuel said. "There's no such thing as a safe demon. Remember Eiael, may they rest in peace."

The group repeated the phrase. Aziraphale felt strange, disconnected from even his own body. He supposed it wasn't real, though, was it? Not truly his body.

Heavy silence descended following that.

All of the principalities were sitting with flawless posture, austere faces, all a respectable distance from each other. Their human clothes seemed especially mismatched-- all from different cultures and social standings, with wild variance. Aziraphale wasn't in his armor at the moment, but a knight's clothes were still remarkably fine and colorful. Daniel was in the clothes of a priest from Tarsus, Imamiah was someone very important influencing the governance of Ghana (which was newly establishing itself), Nilhael was a scholar encouraging inventors in the Northern Wei Dynasty, Mehaiah was a lawmaker in the business of keeping Christian Ethiopia Christian, Vehuel was a kindly village shepherd in the Andes, and so on, and so forth.

It looked like a costume shop.

"We'll get 'em one day," Nanael said. "They'll all see, when the end times come, and it's too late to repent. They'll realize how stupid they were to turn their backs on God. How their evil acts have done them no good in the end. All their vengeance and bloodlust will mean _nothing_ against the united force of Heaven."

"If they even last that long," Hahasiah said. They tapped their cheek, where a glowing white line was, short and vertical. Not the gold of natural divinity marks. No, this was a self-modification, an angelic tattoo. "I've already got one down. Balam never even saw it coming."

Daniel turned to Aziraphale, smiling, with just a bit of an edge. "You should see Ieuiah," he said. "She's on her eighth mark. It's like her whole face is covered."

* * *

**Wessex, 560**

Aziraphale heard hooves clopping in the distance, and Sir Bedevere cursed under his breath beside him.

"It's _them,"_ he said ominously. Sir Gawain cursed a lot more loudly, and a lot whinier too.

"It's not so bad," Aziraphale said encouragingly. "We've had absolutely _no_ casualties, from any previous encounters."

"Shut up."

That was fair, and so he did.

Crowley and his fiends came trotting out, and both parties circled into a more open area for mutual convenience. He had three rogues with him today, as compared to the two knights with Aziraphale. But the legendary Knights of the Round Table had far superior horses, and armor, and armor for their horses. But also no one associated with Crowley had any honor and they all fought dirty. But on the other hand--

"I'm tapping out," Crowley called. "I'll just-- I'll be over here. You guys have fun! Enjoy violence!"

"Do not enjoy violence! This is a means to an end, and nothing more!" Aziraphale called, heading over to join him.

"Oi, Sir Aziraphale, where you going?" Sir Gawain asked. Sir Bedevere shook his head and told him something, but it was too quiet for Aziraphale to catch at this distance.

"The Black Knight is mine!" he piped up. "Oh-- um, not in the battle way! He is sworn to me! And it would be most-- most unscrupulous to harm one who is mine to-- to protect and employ--"

"We get it," Sir Bedevere shouted. He turned back to Sir Gawain. "He does this every time. Formidable against the Saxons, useless with the Black Knight..."

"Right," Aziraphale said quietly. To himself. He twitched the reins in his hands, urging the horse to catch up with Crowley.

The demon had already hitched his own steed to a tree, not far from a creek he had presumably had it drink from. Aziraphale followed suit, and then shoved his helmet off, joining Crowley in leaning against a tree.

It sounded like their respective sides were already at it, in the distance, swords clashing against swords, against armor, men shouting and horses whinnying.

"It's been a while," Crowley said lazily. "You've got a strapping new young knight and everything."

Aziraphale laughed. "Yes, he is a bit green, isn't he?" he asked. "The young ones are always so dramatic about everything."

"Blinded by their own self-righteousness, more like. Can't see an inch past their own gleaming armor."

"Hey! I'll have you know Sir Gawain is a noble young man and takes the code of chivalry--"

 _"Angel,_ angel, relax, I didn't mean anything by it. It's just most new knights have a certain type of personality, you know? Surely you've seen enough of them come and go."

Aziraphale's lips quirked. "It has been a long time," he said. "Well. Thirty-five years. That's quite short, isn't it? But it doesn't seem it when..."

"When the humans don't even live that long," Crowley finished quietly.

"Yes," he said. "Yes. With Arthur's death, it's been... King Constantine isn't exactly well-liked, as I'm sure you know."

Crowley nodded.

"The court just hasn't been the same. Many who were loyal to Arthur have left, some even renouncing their vows rather than swear fealty to Constantine. And Merlin-- you know Merlin, the great wizard?-- has taken off into the woods."

"So I've heard."

"They say he went mad. I didn't see it, and of course, the humans say any number of wild things. But Merlin was clearly named such for a reason. The man lived in the court longer than I have. And he had powers, that was for certain, I saw them with my own eyes. But... Oh, oh dear, was he one of yours? A warlock, is it? Did he make some sort of deal?"

"Not him," Crowley said. "All of Merlin's powers he came by naturally. Honestly."

"Oh, oh that's a relief. He was... quite close with the departed king, you see. And if I had allowed a demonic pawn such ready access to the monarchy this whole time--"

"Merlin's not a demonic pawn," Crowley said firmly.

Aziraphale nodded. "Good. That's-- good," he said. "In a way, it almost would have been funny, if he had been. The most illustrious, noble Christian king that Britain has ever had, and a magic man rumored to be hellspawn-- and the two of them are inseparable."

Crowley's lips quirked. "It is a bit ironic," he said. "You know... For the sake of full disclosure, Merlin actually is... the son of a demon."

Aziraphale gasped. "Really? But you just said he came by his powers honestly. Crowley--"

"No, no, he did, he inherited them. No deals, no strings attached, no souls bought whatsoever, I swear."

"But being a demonic child--"

"Well, he can't help it, can he? No choice in who his parents are. And it's not like that means anything anyhow. Who you were born to be and who you choose to be are completely unrelated, totally separate concepts. I mean. Take demons, for example. All used to be angels, didn't we?"

"...Yes, I suppose."

"So isn't the reverse possible? Merlin is born of a demon, but he can still be good? I mean, he's not-- he's not _damned,_ it's not his fault, the kid did nothing wrong, he doesn't deserve--" He blew out a breath. "God is merciful, right?"

"Yes, always," Aziraphale said instantly, and that was easy.

He wasn't sure God would be merciful toward Merlin, though. Humans were forbidden from practicing magic, in any real way, in any form they could access. It was stated in the Bible countless times. One of the gravest sins.

Just because Merlin so readily had the power doesn't mean he should have been using it, and Aziraphale has no doubt that will be taken into account when it comes time to collect his eternal soul.

"Anyway, let's talk about different things. How's Heaven lately? You just had a report a few years ago, didn't you? Never told me about it."

"Ah, yes, that," he said. "Well, it was seven years ago, so it's not exactly fresh news, but I didn't see you for a while after."

"Got a bit caught up in something."

"It's alright, I was in a terrible mood anyway. Gabriel was awful, as always, and threw his power around just for the sake of seeing me flustered."

"Hate that."

"Thank you!" he said. "I find it rude! He purposely throws me off, and then denigrates everything I've done, because he'd never heard of books before and is still in that ancient mindset that all writing is evil. But still, somehow, I am not writing enough. I am not lazy!"

"God no."

"A human would be lucky to finish one average manuscript in 2-5 years. The Bible is huge! I was working night and day-- literally-- without rest or sustenance at all, and I completed 24 manuscripts in 72 years, ten of them being Bibles. I had to coordinate with artists, you know. I have no hand or eye for painting. Oh, after a few decades, I could do it passably, in crude figures and ill-mixed colors, but such wonderful books deserve the work of masters. And masters take _forever."_

Crowley hummed and nodded sagely.

"I was almost relieved to get this assignment," Aziraphale said testily. "I think, if I were a human, my hand would have fallen off. But this, though, I can manage this. I like the royal court. Excellent food and clothes. And wine! I could do without the drama, though. Constantly giving advice to these young adults, and do they listen? No. They start three affairs and poison someone, and are shocked when it all goes wrong."

Crowley snorted. "Liar. You love the drama."

"That's not true!"

"It's entertaining."

"I only wish to guide them in their endeavors, and to do that, I need to be keep abreast of all-- all the relevant developments."

"Mm, relevant developments, quite a mouthful." He leaned in and kissed Aziraphale, slow and languid. "Easier to just say gossip."

Aziraphale gave a mock offended gasp and put a hand to his chest. "My dear," he said. "You insult me in one breath and bestow a holy kiss with the next? Vile demon, you are. Whatever shall I do with you?"

The answer was, apparently, pull him in for another kiss, this one even longer, and perhaps involving Aziraphale biting at Crowley's lips a bit.

The demon pulled back after a minute or two. "Never once in my life have I given a _holy kiss."_

"Oh, but you have," Aziraphale said. He pressed another kiss to Crowley's lips, perfectly chaste this time. "See? It's downright heavenly--"

"Shut up," Crowley said. "Every time I kiss someone, it is inherently evil. It's a sin in itself."

He frowned. "It absolutely is not," he said. "An expression of affection and love, given freely and gladly received, is never and can never be sinful. It is the exact opposite of that. In fact, I'd argue that the act of kissing is inherently holy."

Crowley's eyes flashed. "I'll show you an _unholy_ kiss." He crawled on top of Aziraphale, metal screeching as their armor knocked together and Aziraphale _delightfully_ fell backwards into the grass. Crowley's hands came up to come up his head, the sensation strange through steel gauntlets.

And then Crowley gave Aziraphale the filthiest kiss of his life.

Just as Aziraphale was moaning obnoxiously loudly and seriously considering miracling off the torture devices known as plate armor, the ground opened up before them and a beautiful man in modern green clothes rose up out of it, quiver slung over his back and a bow already out, in his hands, looking directly at Crowley and--

Aziraphale panicked.

His sword was in the demon's chest, his true form rippling out. The demon looked up at him with fear, and then his eyes dimmed.

The body disintegrated out of existence, and Aziraphale's sword dropped into the grass, slick with black ichor.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley asked, his voice high and scared.

The angel turned around in an instant, and oh, he forgot that he had hooves in this form.

This was a lot of eyes. Oh, he was definitely going to get a headache, between this switch and the switch back, oh dear.

"Angel?" Crowley asked. He looked petrified. "It's me, Crowley. Your-- You know me. I'm safe."

 **"̵̡̯̄͠O̷̪̐͐f̷̟͐̾ ̵̖͈͘ċ̶̤̩ọ̴͂u̷͇͔͗r̶̩̹̃s̸͎̽e̵̲̤̒,̴̣́͑"̶̗̑͜** he said. Oh dear. He cleared his throat. **"̶̨̔̚I̴̺̔ ̵͖͙̓͂k̷̪̒ṋ̵̬̈́͝o̶͐͜w̸͔̒ ̸̡̱̓w̷̮͆h̸̥͌͗o̷̝͒ ̴̥̳̑ȳ̸͓o̶̬̳͊̇u̶̥͝ ̴̢̛͖ă̴͓r̷̙͆͆ȩ̴͖̈̑,̵̰͔̐̅ ̶͖̟́Č̸̞r̶̩͗ͅơ̵͙͓w̷̥̑̓l̵̬̂̈́e̷̲͒͠y̴̧.̵̪̋ͅ"̶̱̟̓**

Nope, that wasn't going away.

Very carefully, he summoned the image of his human corporation and began the tedious process of stuffing his true self into it.

Crowley looked a bit-- struck.

"So sorry about that," Aziraphale said. He cleared his throat again. "That demon startled me."

"Yeah," he said. "I figured that was what happened."

"What do you think that whole business was about? He looked like he was going to hurt you. Oh, no, this won't cause you _more_ problems, will it? Are they after you for some reason? Has Hell turned on you?"

Crowley shook his head, but Aziraphale was already moving on, dismissing his previous idea as nonsensical.

"No, they would never. Do you have enemies down there? Demons who hate you? Or-- oh, do they kill for clout? Is that a thing? If--"

"Angel!" he said. He put his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, a gesture that would be a lot more comforting without all the armor. "It's fine. I think you just killed the messenger." He looked down at Aziraphale's bloodied sword. "I'm behind on my paperwork. He probably came to collect."

"You have it on you?"

"To collect _me."_

"Oh," he said. He felt compelled to put his arms around Crowley and crush him to his chest, and so he did. "I'm glad you're okay," he spoke into soft red hair.

Crowley laughed. "I'm fine, angel, nothing even happened. Don't worry, you fought off the big evil memo demon."

His tone was obviously joking but it just made Aziraphale want to hug him harder.

* * *

**The Forest of Broceliande, 585**

In 573, there had been a battle, a bad one, a big one, with heavy deaths, and Merlin had fought in it. It had changed him, and the people said he went mad. They had no other words for it, and wouldn't for centuries and centuries yet.

When he had finished grieving Arthur's death, he had returned from the woods as an eccentric bard and lawgiver. He was still himself, he was still living his life. But the battle changed all that.

And it was so much worse.

Ganieda (now Queen of Dyved) had commissioned an observatory to be built, as a sanctuary in the winter months, so that her brother might observe the stars there without fear of the cold. He wrote down his prophesies regarding the future of Britain into a book, and he spoke to the animals he encountered It saw little use in the summer, as Merlin preferred to walk the forest freely and live entirely outdoors.

But it was what Gwenddydd could do. It didn't erase what had happened, it didn't magically cure Emrys, but it gave him a bit of safety and happiness. He hated being trapped indoors, the crush of close society and too many people only made his symptoms worse, but if was going to wander the woods for the rest of his life, then Gwenddydd could at least make sure he had a safe place to return to while doing it.

Attempts to bring him to the castle had not gone well and were now very much abandoned.

So, as queen, she had built an observatory open to the sky, sumptuously large, with 70 doors and 70 windows, so that Emrys could always get out of any room easily and could always see what was around him.

It had been finished and completed four years ago, and Gwenddydd had visited often. She had been there when Merlin abruptly announced that her husband, King Rhydderch, had died under mysterious and sudden circumstances, and she hadn't been surprised, and Emrys had been shocked.

Interestingly, Rhydderch had been king over the very forces Emrys had fought against at the Battle of Arfderydd, and then he had sent some of his men to pursue Merlin personally, forcing him to hide out among apple trees. And when Merlin had first fled the palace court, saying it was too much for him, Rhydderch had had him dragged back in chains. Their shared past was such a funny little coincidence. The world truly was small.

But now Rhydderch was rotting in the ground and Ganieda ruled over his kingdom. The throne was hers.

After the funeral, though, she took leave of her beloved consort and moved into the observatory permanently. Call it a premonition.

She had contacted Crowley, who had done the same. Now it was time.

Over the past few years, they had done their best to help Emrys, but realistically, there was very little they could do. Except this; they could give him this. The decision had been made quietly a long time ago, and all the great length of time in between was... a grace period, to make certain he was sure. It wouldn't do to make a rash decision when so obviously fragile.

But this was no rash decision.

"Are you sure about this, Emrys?" Crowley asked quietly. He nodded, eyes dead set and determined.

"Very well," Crowley said. "It can't be undone, you know."

"I know."

"Alright. Just making sure."

Crowley dipped the ladle into the spring. He drew it out and held his hand over it, muttering something in Low Enochian. The water fizzed and popped, smoking lightly. He held out the ladle for Merlin.

"Careful," he said. "It's hot. Might taste gross."

Merlin nodded and took hold of it. He brought it to his lips carefully, taking a small, cautious sip. Then another, longer one. He drank until the ladle was empty. Probably unnecessary.

When he opened his eyes, they were fully gold and glowing, with no whites or pupils, shining light out with brilliant intensity. Ganieda stepped forward, and the twins locked their hands together and touched their foreheads to each other. The light flowed out of Merlin's eyes and into Ganieda's. It was absorbed quickly, the magic lighting up all of her skin for a moment before settling into her bones.

They broke apart, and Merlin's eyes had gone from their slightly-unnatural hazel to a deep, rich brown.

And just like that, Merlin's powers were gone, the tangle of time taken out of his head, and Ganieda's powers were doubled.

He broke into a grin and a relieved, breathless laugh. "We did it," he said. "We did it, guys, we did it. Thank God, thank-- Dad. Dad, I'm mortal. Thank you."

Merlin hugged him, soft and warm, and Crowley immediately reciprocated. He held him, and he let his son cry into his shoulder.

* * *

They all stayed in the observatory until Emrys eventually died. Peacefully, of old age, in a safe place and surrounded by his family. He had lived near a century and a half, he had loved, he had adventured, and when he had left this world, it was by his own free will. A life well-lived.

Crowley and Gwenddydd buried him, weaving magic around the grave, to make sure the most beautiful flowers grew there every year, and that they would always be able to find it if they wanted to.

They hugged and said words that Crowley didn't really process. Ganieda left for her palace, and the throne that had been empty all these years. Crowley chose a different direction at random and started walking. They both needed a break, needed to process things on their own. Attend to business that had long gone neglected.

Eventually, nature would reclaim the observatory.

* * *

**Hell, 602**

There are no regularly scheduled meetings in Hell. They happen when they happen, basically. When someone who has the power to decide that stuff has some free time or wants to publicly humiliate a particular underling.

Almost all the demons had found a reason to be in Hell recently, though, and the place was buzzing.

Someone had gotten a hold of one (1) copy of the Bible. Since then, thousands of copies had been miracled, and demons with the ability to read (specifically in Latin) were in high demand.

Every thirty seconds in Hell, someone has to explain that humans have their own language-- multiple ones, in fact-- and it is not similar to Low Enochian at all.

Not that the majority of these demons can read even in Low Enochian. All signs posted in Hell rely on those early-days miracles that Heaven used, before Uriel invented the written word, where the meaning is beamed directly into your brain and conveyed via whatever crude symbols someone chose to write down. This way, no one can claim to not understand what a sign says (particularly useful with dead human souls, who always try it), and management gets to draw dicks on everything.

Hell was currently plastered with the pages of the Bible pertaining to demons, the Rebellion, Satan, etc. There were at least a thousand copies of Legion running around, tearing down the pages of that really embarrassing story where Jesus exorcised him into a herd of pigs, who then ran off a cliff. All of them are being heckled. Even demons who can't read have heard the story by now.

But Legion was far from the only demon that Jesus exorcised; he was just the only one named. All of Hell was clamoring to attach names to stories, and really even if it was just about an exorcism (even one done by a prophet or apostle), being a demon who _got in the Bible_ came with a certain amount of prestige.

"Crowley!" Andrealphus called, and oh, she already exactly how to play this.

"Yeah?" she asked casually, glad of her choice to wear sunglasses today.

"You're in the _Bible!"_ he said, imbuing it with just the right amount of awe. Crowley arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Oh yeah? What's it say?"

"Well, there's that whole first part, in the beginning, with the Temptation. Where you caused the downfall of man, remember?"

"Kinda hard to forget, Andrealphus," she said dryly. "The world wouldn't be what it is without it, and neither would Hell."

"Of course," Penemue rushed to say, falsely fearful and sycophantic. She gave a laugh, brittle and nervous. "No one could ever forget all that you have done for us, oh great Demon Crowley."

Andrealphus leaned in close to her, hopefully whispering an instruction to tone it down a bit. Between the two of them-- a literal peacock demon who's invented multiple new forms of math, and the many eyed curer of stupidity and speaker of wisdom-- neither one had ever shown true "meekness" once in their lives.

They made a grand attempt at faking it, though.

Crowley snapped her fingers and miracled up a throne for her to lounge on, something black and sharp and with strange edges. Very uncomfortable, and as imposing as she could make it without risking a better-ranked demon taking issue with it.

"Well?" she said. "What else is there? I assume you aren't wasting my time rehashing old news. _Everybody_ knows I did the first Temptation."

"We aren't!" Penemue said, rushing forward. "There's so much more. They included your temptation of the Christ."

Andrealphus was holding something small and blue, an odd sight among Hell's saturation of glowing reds. "'Then Jesus was led by the spirit up into the wilderness to be tempted by a demon. After he had fasted for 40 days and 40 nights, he felt hungry. And the Tempter approached and said to him: "If you are a son of God, tell these stones to become loaves of bread."'"

Crowley nodded. "Yes. And that was actually a deep metaphor about the nourishment of the soul, in a non-physical sense. Had he performed the miracle, and simply eaten the bread, all of humanity would have been damned for eternity," she said. "But he was too wise and cunning, and he saw through my clever ploy, even disguised so intricately as it was."

This was something she had heard two drunken Christians in a Roman tavern arguing about, and she had proceeded to rant at length about it to Aziraphale, who listened sympathetically. Sometimes bread was just bread, and an idiot young man in the desert was prolonging his fast beyond reason simply because it was a demon who told him to stop it.

Crowley really thinks the metaphor is the most evil thing ever invented. The fact that it came from God Herself is... Well. Not as surprising as it should be, actually.

"Wow," Penemue said. "And there's more."

Red light shot outwards in an arc. Flesh smacked flesh.

"'Then the demon said to him: "If you are a son of God, throw yourself down, for it is written: 'He will give his angels a command concerning you,' and, 'They will carry you on their hands, so that you may not strike your foot against a stone.'""

Crowley had made a snide comment along those lines. She nodded sagely, making a motion for Andrealphus to continue.

"'Again the demon took him along to an unusually high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory. And he said to him: “All these things I will give you if you fall down and do an act of worship to me.”

"They always get the pronouns wrong," she said. "For me and for God. You'd think the Bible writers would have more attention to detail. Shoddy work from Heaven as usual. Anyway, that last one was my real temptation. One act of worship and all of human history takes a new path; Adam and Eve part two. I showed him _everything,_ through all of time. All the greatest works of humanity. And I told him-- 'This could be yours.'"

It had been a real temptation. Or a plan for a real one, anyway. She had shown him all the best of the world, and then she had intended to show him all the worst-- all the wars, the atrocities, the disease. The _truth_ of the kingdoms of the world. And then she had been going to tell him they deserved a good leader. A good king. One who could prevent all that before it started, and one who could take humanity to its highest potential.

You don't tempt a good man with greed and power. You tempt him with self-righteousness, with the idea that sinning is actually good, more moral than not sinning, even. She had thought she could get the son of God to develop a God complex.

Who better to rule the world, right?

But then he started talking about his death and she chickened out. Couldn't go through with it.

"Whoa," said someone. Crowley wasn't sure who.

"You tempted the Christ?" a demon asked. "Damn. Who'd you have to blow to get that job?"

"Wasn't an assignment," she said. "My own idea."

A few demons around her tittered.

"Hastur didn't tell you to do this?" came Beelzebub's voice. Crowley's heart dropped straight through her corporation.

"No," she said, because lying to Beelzebub's face was in no way a safe idea.

There was a beat of silence. True silence, as every demon within earshot had mutually decided to shut up.

"Did Satan?" Beelzebub asked.

"No."

"It was 100% your own idea? You just decided to walk up to the son of God and tempt him? Right after his baptism?"

"Well, his baptism was asking for it," Crowley said. "Practically had to. And it wasn't right after. The kid had been starving and wandering the desert for forty days. Any regular human would have sold their soul to me right then. Not my fault I couldn't get him to eat."

"Would you like to kill Hastur?" ze asked. "I could have him brought over. You've earned a promotion multiple times over, Crowley. With your initiative, you'd be twice the duke he is."

"Nah," she said. "No, I prefer my Earth assignment. As long as I can keep that posting, I'm happy. My work there is too crucial to abandon. I prefer a more hands-on approach, you know? Tempting the humans directly. Can't trust anyone else to do it like I do."

She silently thanked Satan that Azazel had set a precedent for that.

"Really? Leraje's been telling everyone about an incident that just passed. Won't stop whining about how he got discorporated by a cherub, and you were there too. I was certain you were going to come down here and apply for a desk job."

"Nah. Me? Please. I've got it handled. Just because Leraje got discorporated doesn't mean _I_ was in any danger."

Andrealphus snorted.

 _"You_ took on a cherub?" some other demon asked. Crowley could feel eyes on her, and from the light, this was quite a crowd.

"Uh, yeah. Obviously, I'm here, aren't I?" she said. "No, that cherub is my nemesis. I encounter him all the time. A fearsome foe, to be sure, and obviously a very powerful cherub. I could not simply kill him, or anything. But neither can he kill me. We've been locked in brutal combat for 65 years now, as enemy knights. Not to mention our millennia of battles before that. I did my best to avenge Leraje, but alas, the coward angel turned tail and ran."

The crowd murmured.

"He's one of Heaven's fiercest warriors," Crowley continued, because she had planned for this. She had been careful to keep Aziraphale off of Hell's radar before this, but there was always a backup plan. If she did have to talk about him, she knew exactly how. "He was the Guardian of Eden, given a flaming sword by God Herself. And you all know a cherub is the second-highest rank. The only reason I am even capable of surviving our battles is because I am so powerful myself and so utterly practiced at fighting him. I know all of the angel's tricks, and I know exactly how dangerous he is. Terrifying. Bloodthirsty. Absolutely no hesitation. I'm sure Leraje can tell you all about it-- how quick he is to kill. Pure blind luck that the sword he stabbed Leraje with wasn't his God-given one. No, you all need to stay away. He's conniving, and fast, and far too intelligent. It's too dangerous if you don't know him like I do. If you ever hear about or see the angel Aziraphale, turn right around and walk away."

"And besides," she smirked, fangs lengthening in her mouth as she did so. "He's _mine."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. Y'all want a super weird and uncomfortable quote about the act of homage?
> 
> "The vassus thus entered into a new realm of protection and mutual services. Through the touching of hands the warrior chief caused to pass from this own body into the body of the vassal something like a sacred fluid, the hail. Made taboo, as it were, the vassal thereupon fell under the charismatic power, pagan in origin, of the lord: his mundeburdium, or mainbour, true power, at once possessive and protective." --Rouche 1987
> 
> The modern traditional Christian prayer pose is actually based off the position for giving homage-- this came first, and before it was a thing, Christians would pray standing up, arms out and palms up.
> 
> Yule is Germanic and was brought over by the Anglo-Saxons, but the concept of a midwinter festival is nearly universal and was already present in the British Isles before they came over


	7. 7.59 Centuries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 400 year time skip wasn't a mistake, nothing important happened then and we're moving on
> 
> Also the fic title has been changed by one digit, cause the year and stuff, and for context, 'elf' and 'fairy' used to mean the same thing.
> 
> WARNING we've gotten into the much more openly Islamophobic and antisemitic parts of Christian history; I don't show anything related to that happening on the page but it is discussed. Also there is offscreen violence at the very end of the chapter

**Hell, 1000**

"Do you hear if they're making any announcements?" Crowley asked.

"Nothing certain. Just rumors," Penemue said.

"They have to be," Amy said. "Everyone expects it. Even the humans think it's time."

"They might not, just to throw everyone off," Andrealphus said. "After all, everyone expects it. Earth is crawling with extra angels right now. Surgat told me he saw a _virtue_ the other day."

"Surgat says a lot of shit," Penemue muttered.

"Shhh, it's starting!" Amy said.

"Welcome, one and all, to Hell's fourth millennial awards banquet!" Asmodeus said from the stage. "I'm Prince Asmodeus, Demon of _Lust,_ and I'll be your host this evening. Now, let's start of with the category you're all most excited about: grossest looking motherfucker. The Grossest Looking Motherfucker Award goes to... Duke Hastur!"

Crowley heard a shout of joy, congratulations, but most of all, the crowd booing.

"Oi, speaking of which," he said. "How'd that wedding go? Were any of you guys invited?"

Hastur and Ligur had gotten married a few centuries back. The only reason Crowley had heard about it was because he had been personally roughed up by Ligur and told he would be killed on sight if he dared to show up.

"No," Andrealphus said. "But me and Pen crashed it and drank a ton of booze."

"Anything exciting happen?"

"Abaddon got really drunk and made out with Leviathan."

Crowley lurched forward in a cough, hacking and choking on his drink. _"What?"_

"Yeah, I know. Leviathan's killed eight lesser demons since then," Andrealphus said.

"That we know of," Penemue corrected.

"Fuckin'... Satan. Why are all the curses holy? Who came up with this?"

"Didn't you spend like, an obnoxious amount of time trying to make new swear words catch on in ancient China?" Amy said. "If you don't like the current swears, I guarantee it's your own fault."

"Our next award-- sickest burn of the past thousand years," Prince Asmodeus said, voice booming out with the help of magic. "That one goes to... Ipos! Ipos, come on up here and tell the story."

The night continued to pass in the manner that was now typical of these things. Hell had literally invented corporate awards banquets, and theirs was exceptional. The only drink served was that special alcohol that could melt a human's flesh from their bones, and there was no dinner provided, only a bunch of crappy hors d'ourves (in this case, live worms and caterpillars and beetles. Also human eyeballs but you had to go wait in line for them). Everyone was talking, and the place was full of demons.

The awards dragged on past all reason, because everyone felt inclined to either make a speech or cause a scene on stage. Most disturbing to be around went to Zagan, not because of their personality or appearance or anything, but just because of that weird liquid transformation shit they're always doing. Most fucked up act went to Gamigin, who apparently hadn't even been _trying_ to torture the dead human souls and just wanted to do that. Biggest sin was awarded posthumously to Buné, who had tried to raise a zombie horde and even succeeded for a while, may she rest in peace.

Only not, because his soul has been destroyed.

Worst bastardization of something holy-- Naberius had fucked an angel. Coolest reason for Falling-- Belial had had a mental break and attacked his fellow angels in one of Heaven's paperwork processing rooms, and had nearly gotten Caliel's face with a stapler before he was restrained. Allegedly.

And then there were the newer categories. Most sex had-- went to an incubus named Leonard, big shock. Most angels killed-- Paimon, with eighteen recorded discorporations and two terminated nemeses for this millennium. 

By the time they got to most souls captured (Leviathan, 58,294) and Heaven's most wanted list, Crowley was extremely drunk and in desperate need of being drunker. Hours had passed. Everyone here was terrible, and significantly worse when drunk. Except for Amy, usually, but she was _mean_ tonight.

"--which is dark as shit and terrifying if you're a human, apparently. Stealing human souls, without their permission or need for a contract, and while they're still alive. A stroke of creative genius. Give it up for Vine!" Asmodeus called. "And now, Number Four on Heaven's Most Wanted list-- the Demon Crowley!"

"Fuck," he muttered. A spotlight swivelled to where he sat. At least he didn't have to get up this time.

"Our man Crowley! As you all know, he's the one who did the original temptation and doomed all of humanity, like completely fucked up the whole Earth for all of time. Humans can suffer because of him! And because of that, they sin. They sin, and they die, and they come to Hell. Now you may be thinking, if Crowley's such hot shit then why does he have the lowest rank? Well, the answer is, he chose it. In the manner of Azazel and those esteemed seven who have volunteered for ambassadorships, Crowley has _chosen_ to have a permanent Earth assignment, and has definitely made the most of it! Not forgetting his illustrious past, in recent centuries, Crowley appeared before the Christ-child of God and _tempted him._ Who even fucking thinks of that? Fucked up. Didn't work, but still. Also! Crowley spawned two demonic children, practicers of magic and dark prophecy, workers of chaos and disunity. These descendants thoroughly infiltrated the human government and one of them-- one of them assassinated a king, right?"

Crowley nodded.

"Yeah, one of them assassinated a king! Straight up stole his country. For about thirty years, there was a half-demon ruling a human nation. _Hell_ of an accomplishment." Asmodeus laughed at his own joke. "Anyway, that is all deeply terrible. Crowley has hurt humanity in a way no one else ever has. He may have been knocked off the leaderboards for a few millennia there, but he is hands-down our most effective earth-bound agent. Give it up for Crowley! Whooo!"

Andrealphus hooted and clapped him on the shoulder so hard he nearly knocked Crowley out of his chair.

"And now, top three: to absolutely no one's surprise, _Paimon,_ one of the most powerful demons in existence, has been ranked..."

* * *

"Waste of bloody time," Crowley said, as everyone began picking up their stuff and standing. There was going to be a rave starting in less than half an hour, which was always an incredibly violent and sexual affair, so he wanted to be out of here before then. "Didn't say _anything_ about the Antichrist."

"I wouldn't call it a waste," Penemue said. "All information is valuable, especially as regards other demons. And a lack of a statement can often be just as telling as a statement itself would be, if not more."

Crowley looked at her, shining streaks of bright red light, her soul so easily visible underneath. Wisdom, an end to ignorance, light that shines into shadows, the sweet and ugly realities of life. A cautious and calculating soul, who had thought out the exact impact of her every action.

Who was letting Crowley see these parts of her even as she shielded others. It was like a wall was up, making things indistinct and indecipherable, the way God had hidden the demons' true spirits before they Fell. But this was not nearly so impenetrable. If Crowley really tried, he could probably take it down, see past it.

"I see," he said instead, and Penemue said nothing.

* * *

**Scotland, 1020**

"Angel!" Crowley called, making a beeline to the blue figure among all the yellow. It was his angel, he had checked. He actually had learned a few things from all those run-ins and near misses with other principalities during Abraham's time.

But this was Aziraphale, Guardian of the Gate of Eden, Angel of Queer People and the Hearth, Wielder of the Flaming Sword. The cherub created to be a nurse aid and bodyguard to Raphael, and had since been demoted to principality.

His soul a beautiful thing to perceive. Crowley could recognize him anywhere, in less than a second. He was soft and righteous and good and idealistic and--

"--Well, you are a fool and a scoundrel, sir, and history will side against you; I will make sure of it personally." The angel harrumphed and stalked away from a merchant stall. "Crowley!"

He felt himself smiling dopily. "Hello, angel."

"What are you doing in Scotland?"

"Oh, I live here. Have for the past thirty... five years now."

"Oh! Oh, how splendid. I wasn't expecting to see you here. I just popped over for a little assignment. I've gone back to being a monk again, in Hungary. Decided to get away from the court for a bit."

"Ah, so've I," Crowley said. "I've been telling the people I'm an elf. It's great-- I use my powers in public, I cause whatever mischief I want, and the humans leave me offerings to prevent angering the Faerie Court."

"Oh!" Aziraphale cried. "Perhaps I'll do that too. We can say we're in opposite courts; it explains everything."

"I think that would raise more questions than it answered, 'Ziraphale," he said fondly.

He paused. "I suppose you're right," he said. "Ah, well. Perhaps we will simply explain nothing and allow the humans to draw their own assumptions. They're quite good at that, could come up with a reasonable explanation for anything."

"Or at the very least, a believable one," Crowley amended. "Do you have lodgings in town? If not, you could always stay at the old family place."

"Old family place?"

"Oh! Right, I've been kind of, um, I'm bothering some humans. And living with them. That's all."

"Ah," he said. "Well, I wouldn't want to impose."

"Oh, nah, it's no trouble. C'mon, we'll fix you right up."

* * *

Crowley led him to a house made of stone that was slightly nicer and bigger than the average house in town. It was, of course, jam-packed full of humans, and Aziraphale immediately knew there was no room for one more person.

"Uncle Crowley!" a child yelled, and attacked Crowley with a flying hug. The demon stumbled back, grinning, and ruffled the kid's hair.

"Oi, Uncle Crowley, who's this?" asked a human who was definitely an adult and presumably the kid's mother.

"Oh, this is Aziraphale. He's my friend."

"Since when do you have friends?" asked a third human.

"Since always. Shut up," Crowley said. "Ignore him, that's Nigellus, and he never learned his manners."

Nigellus scoffed loudly.

"Anyway, Nigellus, Auenel, they're married, this little tyke is Margaretae, and that's Thome, Eymery, Mariam, and... there's two others, should be running 'round here somewhere. Anyway, they're Bern' and Eduardum," Crowley said. "And that's Hugone, Nigellus's father-- technically this is his house-- and Malisii and Raso, who are Nigellus' and Auenel's brothers, respectively-- wait, no, the other way around-- anyway, point is, they also live here."

Aziraphale had already forgotten all of that.

"Well," he said. "Very pleasant to meet you all. I... I'm sorry, the details are a little foggy, how do you all know Crowley?"

"He's our uncle!" the small child from earlier said. Aziraphale didn't remember their name.

"He is?"

"He's _somebody's_ uncle," a teenager said.

"Crowley got swept up with the lads at the tavern one night, 'bout thirty years back, ended up coming home with us and the family decided to keep him," the old (read: fifties) man said.

"Hugone, you miserable coot, you make him sound like a stray dog," the lady of the house said. "Uncle Crowley is family and that's enough."

* * *

Dinner was a riotous, deafening affair as soon as grace was said. It was a pleasant meal-- vegetable stew, fried eggs, beer to drink. Better than what most peasants ate. Aziraphale had to wonder how much was Crowley's influence.

He was told, apparently, that he would be sharing Crowley's room, and was welcome to stay however long he liked.

They slipped away in the evening, taking a stroll through the countryside. They had much to catch up on, they said.

"So," Aziraphale trailed off. "Uncle Crowley the elf."

"I'm a malevolent fae spirit, and I've chosen to bestow evil magical gifts onto one family at random. I'm driving _down_ belief in Christianity."

"Mhmm."

"Yesterday I turned a human's hair blue for cutting me in line. It terrified the townsfolk. I've been accepting offerings in the form of cake and honey."

"Sounds awful."

"The Wyschard family can't kick me out for fear of what I might do to them."

"Of course."

"Do you have any idea how many people here are carrying iron around, or wearing their clothes inside out? The witches can't keep up with the demand for charms. I'm terrifying. The people don't fear God anymore, they bow before _me."_

"Certainly," Aziraphale said. "Definitely explains why I was sent here."

"Oh yeah? Has Heaven been hearing ripples?"

"Well, there's been an uptick in prayers in the area. Gabriel recommended I come investigate, see what was causing it. If we can replicate it somewhere else," he said. "Maybe I should pose as an elf."

"Shut up! You're the worst. I don't even like you," he said. "And anyway, it doesn't matter. Hell likes it. I've done my evil duty."

Aziraphale laced their fingers together, leaning in to steal a kiss on the cheek as they walked.

_I've missed you._

"It's funny," Crowley said. "Something that Hell and Heaven both like. Were you serious about posing as an elf?"

"Well," he started. "I don't know. I mean, yes, the results are good. For... both sides. But I shouldn't be encouraging occult beliefs."

"Next you'll be saying demons aren't real," he said. "The occult is there; does it matter what form it takes? And people are praying for safety. For protection of their soul. One job, and both sides are happy. You're welcome."

"Shouldn't say that," he said. "I can't have you doing my work for me, Crowley. It's dangerous."

"Is it?" he asked. "Or is it just an expansion from what we already do? I mean. It's not like I'm actually performing a blessing. I'm just... doing my own thing, and letting you do your own thing, and they happen to coincide nicely. I'm staying out of your way, essentially, and honestly helping out a bit. I'd be willing to help out more if you'd allow it."

Aziraphale considered that. "I suppose it's not so bad," he said. "There really is no sense in both of us working tirelessly to make sure the other accomplishes nothing. We-- we have the same job here. I don't see why it couldn't be like you say. Staying out of each other's way. Lending a hand when needed. It would certainly look better on reports."

"Exactly," Crowley said. "It's not like we have opposite goals here. There's no reason we can't work together. Or, if that's too much for you, at least communicate. Keep abreast of what the other is doing."

"Yes," he said. "Yes, it'd be rather nice not to be caught by surprise by anything."

"And you wouldn't've had to come here in the first place, had you known."

"Ah," he said. "Well, it was nice seeing you. And-- due diligence. That's a virtue. Diligence."

"So what do you say, angel?" Crowley asked, moving so he was in front and facing Aziraphale head-on. "A bit of letter writing, some planning ahead on how our schemes interact?"

"I don't have schemes."

"Do we have an agreement?"

He paused.

"Yes." He took both of Crowley's hands in his.

They sealed the Arrangement with a kiss.

* * *

**Clermont, 1095**

Christianity was in the middle of a peace movement.

It was about offering safety to those who cannot defend themselves, in these turbulent times of violence. Governments were getting more structured, the Church was getting ever more powerful (especially the pope), and there were some wars taking place that were a bit more large-scale than what people were used to.

The Peace of God extended to church property, the clergy, women, pilgrims, merchants, cattle. It was encouraged by a number of bishops and had a large amount of common support.

At the Council of Clermont, Pope Urban II reemphasized this, and extended the Peace of God towards all. God's protective power was one of his key attributes, after all. And so, naturally, it was an aspect of Christian duty to protect their fellow Christians in the Middle East, who were greatly outnumbered by the Muslims in the Middle East.

The Pope called for Christian knights to rally and _rescue_ the Holy Land from the Muslim Turks. It was preemptively defensive, and did not conflict with the peace movement.

There was a war on Christianity, you know.

The Pope promised that all who fought in the Holy War would have all their past sins instantly forgiven. Armies made preparations, common people set out in ill-organized but enthusiastic bands. The People's Crusade completely failed to reach Jerusalem, but along the way they managed to incite four different pogroms-- mob riot massacres of the local Jewish population.

* * *

**Europe, 1184**

The Inquisition started small. They just needed to track down heretics. The Catharists in southern France, the Waldensians in Germany and Northern Italy. It wasn't a big deal. If people confessed, they would simply receive their punishment and be done with it. These would be comparatively mild-- anything from a pilgrimage to a whipping.

But not testifying wasn't an option. Accused heretics, of course, were not allowed legal counsel. Or to face their accusers. And anyone who was accused but refused to confess was automatically tortured and executed. This didn't mean that confessing was necessarily a safer route, however. One particularly zealous Inquisitor was known to burn confessors at the stake as their punishment-- in addition to what was being done to all who dared not confess. The Inquisitor who eventually took over for him would simply take heretics' land as punishment, and he became a very wealthy man from that.

It started small. It would get worse.

* * *

**Pannonhalma, 1226**

"Aziraphale."

Silence.

Crowley heard a page turn.

"Angel."

Absolutely zero response.

"I told the monks we were married."

Still nothing.

"So. How long have you been sitting there? Have you actually left between now and the last time I visited you? That was over a week ago."

Crowley, with her active imagination, deduced there was probably a layer of dust over the angel. Also the entire surrounding room. And maybe a skeleton in the corner.

Amazing how she is constantly surrounded with such tonally-apt scenery.

"Did you even have a house in this era? Or have you just been haunting this monastery? I think it can get its own ghosts at this point. Two hundred years. It qualifies."

The book Aziraphale was reading was-- unfortunately or not-- not holy. But, still, Crowley could guess where it was based on where Aziraphale's hands were.

She slapped her hand down in the center of it. Blue light tilted, streaks shifting in new directions.

"Crowley?"

"Yeah. Hi."

"How long have-- What are you doing here?"

"Came to visit you. Should have known better than to try and compete with a book." She smiled crookedly.

Aziraphale huffed. But he did not, apparently, have anything to say to that.

"Well. The archabbey recently got its hands on a copy of the Mahabharata. And so I've been allowed to read it. And then I reread it, and started to again. It's that type of book, you know, where you have to go through it multiple times to fully appreciate all its complexities."

Crowley nodded dutifully. Aziraphale said that about every single book he read. He then spent the next half hour talking about the Mahabharata and his opinions on it, only pausing for breath on the occasion that he wanted Crowley to comment.

"But enough about what I've been up to, what about you? Any, uh... evil deeds?"

"Well," Crowley said. All she had done this week was loiter around and be a nuisance to the public. Also she sat in a field and talked to the sheep, made a personal enemy out of one, and then got chased away by the young shepherd boy. "I've lied to holy men."

"...Right now?"

"No, not you. Don't be ridiculous." She made a face. "I lied to all your monk friends."

"What? About what?"

"Told 'em we were married. Don't freak out! They've been asking why I keep visiting you, and I keep making them forget to question that, and it has occurred to me that that might not actually be good for them. Like, it might affect their minds long-term or something. So." She shrugged. "I mean, it's easy enough to undo it if it--"

"No, no, it's fine," Aziraphale said. "Very sensible of you. Kind, even."

"Shut up. I'm lying to monks. It's evil. How dare you," she said, without any heat. She pulled her sunglasses off and leaned back indecorously. "Betrayed by my own husband, what kinda world are we living in?"

Aziraphale laid his hand on top of hers, and she could feel the warmth radiating from him.

* * *

**Florence, 1347**

There was an outbreak of plague in the East, and then there was a battle, a siege in a little trading town, and the general leading it was a particularly sore loser.

So he tossed dead bodies of plague victims over the city walls, and then he packed up his men and fled.

And the plague was brought to Europe.

* * *

It stunk.

The air stunk, and they said that was what made you sick.

Crowley was in Florence, and it was Rome burning all over again. It seemed the entire planet was dying, and they couldn't-- they were--

Crowley was healing the sick.

It had started with just one little girl and they had spiraled from there. They had no clue how many miracles they had performed already. It was an endless stream of people, it seemed like everyone, it was a rare person who caught the plague and survived, but Crowley was singlehandedly bringing up that statistic, they were dragging an exhausted, adrenaline-fueled corporation through all of Florence, going from human to human and curing with a touch, and the humans were--

"Angel," a man said, awe in his voice. "What is your name?"

Crowley yanked their hand back with a glare, but felt tears in their eyes.

Their hips hurt.

They started walking to the nearest stench of sickness, as fast as they could.

* * *

Crowley healed hundreds.

Thousands, over the next few months.

Then the Furies were waiting for them in their apartment, and Hell made its displeasure known. Not enough to discorporate them-- no sense wasting a perfectly good body-- but enough that a true human would never have recovered.

It was two months before Crowley was capable of picking themself off the floor. It was three months after that before they miracled up a wheelchair.

And then it sat in their chambers unused, as they decided to sleep for a few more years.

They woke up in 1352, and the plague had mostly disappeared in 1350, but so 50,000,000 people and half the city of Florence.

* * *

**Florence, 1361**

The plague was back.

Crowley had a plan.

A no-miracle plan that would not show up on any paperwork, or get them in trouble, or be in any way provable at all.

"Doctor!" a human yelled, running up to them and grabbing them by the shoulders. "Doctor, please, it's my wife, she's-- she--"

"It's alright," they said. "Take me to her."

The human did, grabbing them by the hand and babbling a mile a minute. He and his family lived in a little hovel, uncleaned and smelling of shit, urine, and sickness.

Most everywhere did, these days.

Crowley stared into the woman's soul. It was rapidly fading. She had about two or three days left.

They hefted their walking stick-- now a sleek black cane as their profession demanded-- and carefully, gently, examined the woman's body with it. No direct contact. No one was sure if that actually helped, but it was standard procedure.

Not that standard procedure was worth much. It was mostly announcing how much time was left, calling priests, hearing wills, keeping track of how many were infected and how many died. That was what they were reduced to. Record-keeping.

Crowley could heal any human from any ailment with a thought. But, without their magic, they can only try healing humans using human methods and knowledge. And nobody knows what to do about the plague.

At least they know what's causing it. Miasmas-- fumes and vapors from dead bodies and sick people.

"I'm going to lance the buboes," Crowley said. They drew out the surgeon's knife-- several feet long, to keep their distance. "It'll let the disease out, and rebalance her humors. Arrange your wife so that they are accessible."

They hated this part.


End file.
